


Corona

by berryboys



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Army, M/M, Science Fiction, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-25 14:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14380611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berryboys/pseuds/berryboys
Summary: As the best soldier of the army, Yukhei's duty is to obey and fight, not to chase after his lost, possibly dead soulmate.





	1. Prologue: Cycle of Loss

**Author's Note:**

> 2018-09-23  
> Playlist (all chapter titles are songs): [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/xapk2ygmdpk4klll311fovbuk/playlist/6PQEvAMmHXgmgSkw0hBZRY?si=hMgfSOdoRaa4rLIXIxDbng)  
> 2018-04-20  
> I don't even know what happened myself. Thisis a genre I have never written for nct (bye slice of life), yet one of my fave tropes... which would be futuristic soldiers and soulmate/partner bonds.  
> The lack of tags is to keep the mystery. It's probably going to feature every member and they might have individual chapters (maybe not everyone, but most members will do). So yes, it's going to be pretty looooong. I don't know why I'm putting myself through this but let's.
> 
> (Also I know the prologue is going to look super angsty but I swear it will be moderate angst. Or will it be...)
> 
> You can always find me on [renjucas](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)  
> ^^

  **֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Yukhei woke up on the morning of the 21st of March and knew it was the end.

Sometimes, feeling such certainty about a tragedy wouldn’t allow him to feel the whole impact. It felt like a hand closing around his heart, and then clenching around it. And clenching. Until Yukhei’s heart was divided in protruding juicy slices, asphyxiated between the fingers. But this wasn’t just another tragedy. The term was an insult, a word that Yukhei would have never used and wished it had never slipped into his head.

Jungwoo was dead, and Yukhei was sure about it.

He was sure because he couldn’t feel him through the Connection, a thread that was supposed to unite them for life. For life, but not for death. Yukhei knew because his body had reacted to the wave of pain by waking him up, and judging that he was still inside the capsule, he wasn’t supposed to wake up yet. Maybe he had at least two more weeks until he had completely cured himself. His ribs still hurt, and so did his right leg, where a soldier had pierced him with a frost blade.

Jungwoo had laughed because, who uses blades nowadays when your enemy can shoot through your head with a Nanomissile from 3,459 miles away? Yet Yukhei had gotten a wound from a blade, and it was both laughable and pathetic for someone who was known as the best soldier of the whole unit. But deep inside he was aware that Jungwoo had joked about it because it was obvious he had had high chances of losing that leg.

He hadn’t lost the leg, but somehow, for some reason, Jungwoo’s capsule hadn’t cured him even if his wounds were milder. Perhaps he wasn’t inside it to begin with, and Yukhei had been the only fool who was unaware of his partner’s imminent death, caged for his own health. Maybe the higher ups had sent him on a mission despite not having a partner available to back him up. Yukhei knew how these assholes operated. They didn’t give a fuck about their lives.

There wasn’t anything that Yukhei could do at this point, and that’s what his rational, trained mind whispered as a defense mechanism. The right thing to do was close his eyes and make a stupid attempt to return to his trance. Yet no matter how many years of training a soldier received, nothing could ever mute the pain of losing your other half.

So Yukhei reacted the only way that wasn’t appropriate: screaming.


	2. Daydream

**֍   Yuta. Cyber forces. Unit № 23   ֍**

 

“Yukhei is awake.”

Jeno was standing under the door frame, and he wasn’t displaying any of the disciplinary behaviors he had been taught. His shoulders were hunched, his lips were pressed into a line and Yuta could even detect the tension creeping on his back, a tension that had probably accumulated over the last weeks and that soon would translate into a visit to the endothermic physiotherapist.

“Fuck,” Yuta said, and regretted it immediately. He couldn’t show this sort of panic before the younger soldiers, and less when they looked as disturbed as Jeno did. Still, the adrenaline that the news injected into him made him get up and scramble for his communication device. He didn’t turn it on though, remembering he had company. “Thanks, Jeno. You’re dismissed.”

But Jeno didn’t budge, and when Yuta looked up again with a questioning expression, Jeno didn’t get the hint. Or maybe he did, but he was too stubborn to accept orders in such a complex situation.

“Why did he wake up?” he asked, his face finally breaking into a concerned scowl.  “He was scheduled to wake up during the seventh week. I programmed it myself. I’m sure that I didn’t make a mista-”

“The program was correct, Jeno. You’re dismissed now,” Yuta cut him off. Better that than let him follow the natural course of his logic. Jeno would reach the definitive conclusion if Yuta just gave him permission to do so, and they didn’t need a junior panicking and alerting the other soldiers.

A flash of frustration clouded Jeno’s gaze. He didn’t argue, however, because that would have been out of place and would have gained him at least a punishment or a sanction. His second one. So instead he bit his lower lip and sent Yuta one of those hateful glances the trainees always dedicated to him, as if he had converted into the target of all their frustrations.

As soon as Jeno closed the door – with more violence that he should have used, but completely intentional – Yuta hesitated about informing Taeyong right away or not. He could check Yukhei’s state himself first and take a decision based on his own judgment, yet if it was the wrong one Taeyong was going to kick his ass. Not in a pleasant way.

They had fought two days ago and, as usual, they didn’t fuss over solving it. It complicated working together to incredible extents. Plainly, it _sucked._ It sucked to have Taeyong as your partner, who didn’t care about your well being, who wanted you as far as possible unless you two were in the middle of the battleground. The sentiment had become mutual, but Yuta had never intended that to happen. It was just that he had reached the limit of his patience while dealing with Taeyong, and Yuta had learned that even if he never planned to replace Taeyong’s former partner, Taeyong would never stop assuming that Yuta wanted exactly that.

Giving up, Yuta dropped the communication device on the bed. Taeyong was going to ignore him if he contacted him that way, anyhow, so he strolled out of his room and into the halls, where a bunch of soldiers were playing a tactical game on the floor with handmade tiny soldiers. Yuta would have laughed any other day, but today he could only send them a stern look and jump over the game board.

Unsurprisingly, Taeyong was in the main courtyard, sitting around a table with other veterans of the unit. Yuta didn’t pay them any attention, but he could feel Youngho’s sudden worried expression when he spotted him, or how Kun became rigid on his seat as Yuta approached them. Taeyong was smoking adaptable titanium, and that wasn’t a surprise either, though Yuta had hidden all his packets last week. The fucker had bought more.

Taeyong must have deduced that Yuta was in the courtyard just by the expression in his friends’ faces, because he put off the cigarette and turned around even before Yuta could greet them. He wasn’t having a good day, Yuta could tell that much with a simple glance at his sour face, but when was a good day for Taeyong?

“Whatever the matter is, we can talk about it later,” Taeyong told him without missing a beat. He blew out the last of smoke that was in his lungs, and Yuta had to contain the urge to move away.

Yuta couldn’t help but scoff, “Move your ass, it’s not a personal matter. We have a problem with one of the sick soldiers.”

There wasn’t any need to mention the name. Yes, there were a bunch of sick soldiers, but all of them were stable except one. All of them were recovering, had their partner safe and sound, except one. Taeyong must have expected this to happen, because he twirled around on his seat without a word and signaled Yuta to lead the way.

Yuta could feel all the eyes on them, boring a hole in his nape, as they left the courtyard. Taeyong didn’t open his mouth until they were alone, which Taeyong managed to provoke by purposely taking private passages that regular soldiers couldn’t use. Yuta hated them for several reasons, one of them being that he had kissed Taeyong for the first time in one of them. Back then, Taeyong’s eyes had sparkled with something akin to happiness. He wasn’t happy anymore, never.

“How is Yukhei?” Taeyong questioned him. He didn’t bother to use honorifics or Yukhei’s full name, since no one could listen to them, and Yuta hated that too. It allowed him to experience a small delusion over the man that Taeyong wasn’t now, the one that Yuta wished he still had around.

“I don’t know. Jeno only told me that he woke up, but by his tone I could tell that it wasn’t a great experience,” Yuta dryly replied.

Taeyong nodded like he didn’t think that it could have developed any other way. Pain was natural, Yuta supposed, at least when that was the only emotion that reminded them they were still alive.

“Who were assigned to the infirmary this week?”

“Renjun has been alone most of this month, since there is barely anyone to take care of,” Yuta explained. That was a decision Yuta had taken after doing a routine check-up on the infirmary personnel. He had never confirmed it with Taeyong, well aware that his partner would refuse to do so. One of the most experienced doctors needed a sick leave, the rest were so exhausted that they should have used the capsules themselves instead of letting other patients in.  Renjun was the only one who had endured the last batch of patients with enough health to go on, and Yuta had trusted him to manage the whole infirmary. “It’s said Jeno spends a good amount of time assisting him when he’s free from duties.”

Taeyong glanced at Yuta, evaluating. Judging. Yuta would have lied, yet having Taeyong nearly glare at him was almost satisfying. Taeyong didn’t need to ask any more questions to deduce that Yuta had never contemplated stopping Jeno from hanging out with a nurse, that perhaps Yuta did it on purpose, as to leaving a subtle message for Taeyong. They should be able to spend their free time with whoever made them happy, even if Taeyong thought that it would become their weakness. Yuta preferred weakness to soulless soldiers that had forgotten how to love a friend, a relative or even a lover, just like Taeyong had.

“Jeno can’t assist him. He doesn’t have the training or the credentials,” was Taeyong’s reprimand, voice loaded of disapproval.

Yuta grinned. “I know.”

Not taking the bait, Taeyong strode ahead of him and pushed the infirmary’s door open. There wasn't any receptionist, and that only fired Taeyong's anger further, while Yuta snickered behind him without shame. However, they found Jeno in the first examining room, gloves on as he looked through a drawer. He looked like he had been caught red-handed, but Yuta had learned that he had that expression too often to be an actual representation of his thoughts.

“Good morning, Captain,” he greeted, straightening in the blink of an eye. Taeyong acknowledged him with a curt nod, and Jeno visibly tried not to stutter through his next words. “Renjun asked me to get some stuff. They're in the next examining room.”

Taeyong, much to Yuta's surprise, didn't move until Jeno took all the tools that Renjun had requested, and when Jeno walked out with a tray full of medical tools, he trailed after him. Yuta appreciated that gesture of respect for Jeno, except it was much more uncomfortable for the patient when three men stepped into the middle of an examination.

Yukhei was lying down on a pallet, naked, skin turned incredibly pale after weeks inside the capsule. He had huge eyebags and the beginning of a beard, as well as long black roots spoiling what was blond hair before. Yuta felt guilty only by looking at him. Renjun was over him, and though he didn't even look at them when they interrupted, he took a second to put a small towel over Yukhei's naked body. Jeno walked up to him with no hesitation, receiving a soft _thanks_ and a subtle brush of fingers that only Yuta would have ever noticed.

“He's sedated. I couldn't work with him in the state he was in,” Renjun announced, as if he knew what they were thinking about.

Although motionless, Yukhei was conscious and he stared at Yuta with intent when he parted his lips to talk. That shut Yuta up. If someone was to fuck up this soon, Yuta wouldn't be the one. Taeyong could take his chances if he wanted to.

“Did you tell him anything?” Taeyong asked.

Fearless, Renjun raised an eyebrow at him. No one in the whole unit would have dared to give Taeyong that look, but Renjun did. He didn't care about soldiers' rules, and Yuta had always suspected that treating dying people didn’t grant him the chance to build up positive feelings towards captains.

“I don't have official information, why would I make this worse than already is?” Renjun sentenced after a long silence. Taeyong didn't respond, and Renjun simply sighed. “He's sedated, not dumb. You can tell him. He's an adult and he took this hit better than most soldiers would have taken it.”

Taeyong analyzed Renjun with one of his coldest stares; still, Renjun just gazed back at him without any trace of perturbation. Yuta wondered what Jeno had disclosed to him about Taeyong and other soldiers for him to be so cold, so faithful to what he believed in.

Ignoring Renjun, after a few seconds Taeyong centered his attention on Yukhei. Yukhei was still looking at Yuta for some reason, though, and Taeyong had to gently set a hand around his jaw to be able to bring him where he needed him.

“Hi, Yukhei. I’m Taeyong. Can you hear me?” Taeyong whispered.

The way he used his words was the reason why he was a leader. No one wanted to be treated with harshness after certain accident, but they didn't wish to be pitied either. Taeyong treated Yukhei with delicacy, as if he understood him, but not like Yukhei was going to break forever if he wasn't careful. Which was the most likely option if Taeyong crossed a line. That was why Taeyong's touch was so important for them, why every soldier admired him, obeyed him without doubting and why no one would ever disagree with him to defend Yuta.

Yukhei gulped before answering, his Adam’s apple slowly moving as though it was painful for him to swallow. “Yes.”

“Do you know why you woke up before the program finished?”

“Because he's dead,” Yukhei replied, not missing a beat. He sounded indifferent. Detached. Until he murmured one name, voice full of an emotion that was very familiar to all of them, “Jungwoo.”

Yuta's stomach dropped. Taeyong's hand twitched in hesitation, but that was his only reaction to the revelation. Jeno and Renjun weren't as discreet, horrified expressions taking over what was only concern earlier.

Taeyong's hand trembled enough for Yukhei to notice, so he drew back in time, only leaving a finger so that Yukhei didn't detect there was something wrong. “Why do you think he's dead, Yukhei?”

Even under the effect of sedatives, Yukhei managed to throw an incredulous look towards Yuta and Taeyong. It was a silent, _are you fucking with me? Or you don’t really know that he’s dead?_ It wouldn’t be weird for soldiers to play such dirty, cruel games. They had gone through worse during their training.

Yukhei closed his eyes, giving up. “I can't feel him. He's not there. Disappeared.”

Yuta didn’t dare to believe it. But that would have explained why Yukhei’s body managed to step over a technological program that controlled his whole biology, why he was having a breakdown, why they were here in the first place, surrounding him like an animal in a zoo. Jungwoo couldn’t be dead, though, and Yuta refused to accept it. Usually they would have a body to confirm it, to see that it was real, or they would get biologic remainders from the battleground and identified their DNA comparing it to their extensive database.

“We don't have any proof of him being dead,” Taeyong continued. It was awful to say it out loud, because he was adding an extra motive to anguish Yukhei. _Your partner is probably dead, but we can’t confirm it. You have to live with his loss and the uncertainty._   “We lost him during a mission last week. Our strategy unit claims he got kidnapped, but we haven't gotten any message from the enemy yet, so we can't know for sure.”

The message didn’t immediately sink. Kidnapping, somehow, sounded worse than death. They all had heard or read about it, some even had experienced second-hand what the enemy could do to hostages. Even though losing the connection to your partner was considered one of the worst things that could happen, it was still better than your partner becoming a hostage.

Renjun was quick. He had been ready before Taeyong began talking, but Yuta only noticed the syringe once it had bore into Yukhei’s wrist. Yuta barely knew anything about drugs, and it took him by surprise when the effect was so imminent that Yukhei drifted to unconsciousness within one second. A heartbeat, and he was gone.

“That’s enough,” Renjun decided, pulling out the syringe and staring into Taeyong’s eyes.

The hint of defiance in his eyes would have been enough to gain him a penalty. Then again, how would Taeyong punish a nurse that was only protecting a patient? Even if said nurse had a crusade against him or any other higher up, even if said nurse would have pulled Jeno out of the unit if he could and soldiers weren’t bounded by blood and life to the army.

Yuta still had to set a hand on Taeyong’s lower back to prevent him from releasing his temper, as to anchor him to the gravity of the situation. Time to be united, not to fight, Ten would have said. Taeyong letting out his anger on someone that didn’t belong to their unit, per se, was the easiest way to create emotional fractures.

“Keep me updated,” Taeyong told Renjun in the end, tense. Jeno looked from one to another, not hiding his nervousness, and Renjun glimpsed at him for a moment as to warn him to be calm. “Tell me everything. If his eyelids twitch in his sleep, I want to know. If he goes to the bathroom, I want to know. Got  it?”

Renjun managed to display a small, bitter smile. “Got it.”

 

 

  **֍   Jeno. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

Soldiers hated the infirmary for obvious reasons, but Jeno didn’t.

When he first arrived at the unit, Jeno had avoided even walking past by the infirmary like every other soldier did. There was an odd belief that the simple proximity to the place would drag you inside, and even though it was irrational, Jeno had just followed along. Soldiers weren’t allowed to have delusional beliefs, and this one was a small, harmless escape for their minds.

Renjun had arrived six months ago, and Jeno would have never known of his existence if Chenle hadn’t fucked up one of the explosive prototypes and gotten a third-degree burn on his stomach. It wasn’t serious, since it was easy to regenerate skin, but what hadn’t been easy was dealing with the new nurse that had attended Chenle. He was a skinny, dainty boy that looked younger than his age – Jeno knew minors weren’t allowed to work in the medical field, unless they were prodigies – and that had scandalously rolled his eyes when he had examined Chenle’s wound.

Jeno, who had felt some sort of concern for Chenle, winded up laughing at the endless scolding that the nurse had given him. Then he had taken a second to read his name tag. He didn’t know why. And Renjun had caught him, stared at him like Jeno was a kid spying his pretty neighbor through the fence, and Jeno had understood the warning right away.

Yet he had ignored it.

At first, when he had shown up at the infirmary on a daily basis, other nurses and doctors assumed he came for treatment. It had happened once, twice, even five times, and then they stopped running to him altogether when he kicked the door open. Jeno admitted that his mere existence had irritated the medical staff, even though he helped carrying machines that no one wanted to carry, he chatted up the sick to entertain them and cleaned up when the workday was over.

“Soldiers come here only when they’re injured,” Renjun had reminded him.

But he hadn’t forced Jeno to leave. So he had stayed.

It was unnatural that he found calm in an infirmary, but it wasn’t the place itself. It was Renjun. And when people that weren’t sick invaded this space, Jeno could physically felt the calmness slipping through his fingers; he didn’t like the tension in Renjun’s shoulders, his usual tender gaze turning into a protective, alerted glare. Renjun was his peace in the middle of a war.

The moment Yuta and Taeyong left, Jeno recovered that safety he always felt. Despite having Yukhei in front of his eyes under circumstances that Jeno had never imagined for him, Renjun’s presence was enough to relax him.

“Help me to move him to the other pallet,” Renjun whispered, giving him a small nudge in the arm.

Jeno did just that, observing how his exhaustion reflected on Renjun’s movements, in how he could lift Yukhei only with a great amount of effort. He didn’t remember either having seen Renjun eat this morning, so he probably hadn’t, given how hectic Yukhei’s examination was. No food and no sleep, so it wasn’t odd to imagine why Renjun seemed to be about to pass out.

“You didn’t sleep tonight,” Jeno pointed out once they had established and stabilized Yukhei in a private room. They stood out in the hall, though Renjun didn’t close the door – hinting that he didn’t trust leaving Yukhei completely alone. “You should rest.”

Judging the way Renjun glared at him, that was the last thing he wanted to hear. Jeno was there for that too, because sometimes Renjun wasn’t that effective at worrying for his own health, and Jeno would tell him a thousand times as long as that assured that Renjun watched over his own health.

So Jeno smiled at him, ignoring the scowl on his face, and stepped forward. Renjun didn’t protest when Jeno encircled his waist and brought him closer; he gave into the hug with a sigh, the resignation of not wanting what he _needed_.

Renjun rested his chin on Jeno’s shoulder, responding to the hug with equal enthusiasm, and said, “Jeno, you have to go back to Jaemin. You spent too much time here tonight, and I’m sure he’s worried about you.” Then, after a second of hesitation, he added, “He has started looking at me funnily, you know?”

Jeno knew. Jaemin had never liked the idea of him visiting the infirmary, and when he found the real reason, _who_ Jeno was visiting, they didn’t have a pretty conversation about it. But all his arguments were things that Jeno had already fought within his mind: that having any type of relationship with a nurse wouldn’t go anywhere, that Renjun couldn’t understand their lifestyle, that he deserved someone _normal_ that provided him with a merry, painless life. Jeno was ready to put up with whatever Jaemin threw at him, and that’s why he had never considered any of his advices. It was jealousy. And Jeno understood that, because his partner was supposed to be the center of his life, and he had sensed Jaemin’s panic overflowing once Renjun entered the picture. That was the issue. Jaemin was still the center of his life, but not the only center.

“I’m sorry,” Jeno said, and he was. An apology wasn’t enough, yet it was all he had to console Renjun. “I can’t leave you to fence with Yukhei though, you’re not rested enough to take care of anyone.”

Renjun released a short, amused laugh, and pulled back to be able to look at Jeno’s face. “So stubborn,” he jokingly grumbled. His hands traveled up to Jeno’s cheek, and then he brushed the hair away from his face, eyes studying him as if he tried to memorize his features. “I will call Chenle to help me while I take a nap. Happy?”

“Better,” Jeno hummed, content. He pressed his nose against Renjun’s, and the boy weakly laughed again, well aware of what was coming, “I’ll check if you did it, so don’t be dishonest.”

“Me? Dishonest?” he teased back. He lifted up his chin, lips hovering over Jeno’s mouth. “When have I ever been?”

Many times, Jeno could have answered. The time he denied that he wished Jeno wasn’t a soldier, to begin with, or when he refused to admit that he had feelings for him and made him suffer from unrequited love for a whole month. That didn’t matter anymore, however, and Jeno forgot all the times Renjun lied to him as soon as he pressed their lips together. Peace in the middle of a war was something he would never let go of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are things that aren't explicitly explained but will be disclosed bit by bit :) you can take a wild guess though


	3. Fermata.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeno remembered how once Youngho had told him that they gave up on their lives so that other people could live. He didn’t mind. It was the reason he had decided to become a soldier.

**֍   Jaemin. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

Jaemin gasped, the belt tightening around his stomach until he couldn't breathe. _You don't breathe with your lungs, but with your stomach_ , Doyoung had told him. And he was right, of course, but that didn't mean that Mark had the right to deliberately torture him and then laugh at him.

All in all, it was Jaemin's fault. During lunch, Doyoung had accidentally let out that he and Mark had managed to create a new multiactivity belt that controlled the body's vitals under death or life situations. Jaemin's ears had perked up at the simple mention of a new accessory for the battleground, and probably the accidental revelation hadn't been so accidental, for Doyoung knew how enthusiastic Jaemin was about trying new, dangerous stuff. Chenle was that bold too, but after burning his stomach due to malpractice with explosives he had been banned from Doyoung's station.

So there Jaemin was, shirtless and regretting his own courage, Mark kneeling in front of him and cackling as he tightened the belt.

“Hurts?” Mark teased, displaying a mischievous smile full of tiny, serrated teeth.

Jaemin grumbled, “Like a bitch.”

“A perfect fit, then,” Mark chirped up, content, but then he loosened the belt. Well aware that Jaemin would be indignant after finding out that Mark had played with him, he scrutinized his face in expectation. Jaemin didn't disappoint, because even though he could breathe now, he gasped again and flicked Mark's forehead with so much strength that Mark fell back on his ass. “Fuck you. You're strong.”

“Language!” Doyoung screamed over Jaemin's laughter, walking up to them with long, relaxed steps.

He was holding a screen between his hands, fingers rapidly moving over it. Jaemin could spot his own figure on the screen, his heart rate, something about his liver and the number of synaptic connections every yoctosecond. He instantly got a headache.

“If it fits well, we're moving onto the next phase,” Doyoung announced, content.

“Which is?” Jaemin asked.

Mark had assured him that it wasn't _that_ bad, voice hinting a full time guilt for dragging Jaemin into Doyoung's trap. It was Mark's trap too, after all, but the boy had less experience and was much more sensitive to people's suffering. It was a matter of getting used to it, however, just like Jaemin had gotten used to watching his friends fall down like flies during battles.

Doyoung made a hand gesture for them to follow him, and Jaemin had enough time to fear the worst as Doyoung led him into one of the biggest rooms. There was a big sign on the double doors indicating that it was the marine technology station, a discipline which Jaemin wasn't specialized in - in fact, he only had the basic training, for they had to choose their specialization very early in the training.

Jaemin had a bad hunch as soon as he spotted the tank in the middle of the room. It looked out of place, as if the tank wasn't usually occupying the center of the room. If it was now it could only mean one thing.

“You're getting me into that goddamn fish tank?” Jaemin almost shouted, horrified.

He spun on his wheels to face both guys. While Doyoung smiled at him, Mark blinked at him, confused, and stated, “It's not for fishes.”

“You're so smart that I could cry,” Jaemin whined, running a hand through his hair. He didn't mean to look stressed, but the sarcasm in his voice and the small gestures, like disheveling his own hair, gave him away. “That shit could fit a whale.”

“Is swearing your defense mechanism against fear?” Mark smartly replied. The analysis was automatic, not done on purpose, so Jaemin didn't bother to tell him to fuck off. It was an observation without malice. His next words, however, did have some malice to them, “Small whales exist. That was a bad comparison.”

Doyoung rolled his eyes at them.

“There, there, stop bickering,” he shushed them, and though it was supposed to be a friendly advice, both of them knew it was an order. Doyoung set a hand on Jaemin's shoulder and squeezed, “What did you think a death or life situation was? We can't shoot you in the head, Jaemin. So this is the easiest option.”

Jaemin sighed in resignation. He had come this far and he couldn't say no when he had offered himself. Drowning in a huge tank wasn't the best plan for a sunday, not when he was supposed to be resting and maybe pranking some newbies. Yet Jeno had disappeared, and Jaemin didn't want to look for him because he knew where he was, and therefore he had consented to this experiment to distract himself. There was no turning back.

“Fine,” Jaemin accepted. “How the fuck do I climb this?”

Mark threw him a delighted look and pointed at the tank, “What about the stairs?”

Jaemin ignored the mockery and strode to the tank. He wasn't going to drown for real anyway, and if the experience was torturing enough, maybe he would be able to let his mind go blank for the first time in years. The water was warm, which was a relief and a way to make him relax before the bad part began. Jaemin floated, caressing his belt and praying for it to work, and stared at Mark through the glass. He didn't seem to be very sure of himself, unlike Doyoung, and Jaemin made a mental note to tease him for it later.

“Don't get scared, the tank is going to draw you in,” Doyoung warned him, merry as he slid his finger over the screen.

The lid of the tank descended over Jaemin and closed with a click, caging him. Jaemin had never been particularly reticent of closed spaces, yet he had to admit that a tank wasn't his dream space. Neither were the capsules, to be honest, though he could find some relief in how they isolated him from the rest of the world.

Jaemin reminded himself that Doyoung had everything under control and this wasn't similar to Mark handing Chenle an explosive and Chenle doing the only thing he shouldn't have done. He also realized that Jeno would kill him if he got informed about this; he always protested when Jaemin tried to put himself in risky, stupid situations.

Then the tank sucked him in.

 

 

 

  **֍   Ten. Land forces. Unit № 11   ֍**

 

When Jeno doubled over with a strained gasp, Ten thought that he was joking around. It wouldn’t have been the first time one of the younger soldiers played a trick on him and then laughed for weeks straight. It was characteristic of Jisung though, not of Jeno, who was usually much more considerate of people’s feelings.

Jeno had been talking – asking if Ten had seen Jaemin around – and all of a sudden he faced the floor, hands tugging at his own neck. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he was choking. On what, Ten had no idea, and therefore his brain wasn’t fast enough to tend to him; all he could do was to hold him so that he didn’t fall down completely and hurt his head against the floor. Much to his relief, Jeno recovered a few seconds later, straightening up with wide eyes and his hand still around his neck.

Alarmed, some soldiers had gathered around them, but luckily there weren’t many, since they were in the lunch room and no meals were scheduled at that time. Some of them supposed that Jeno indeed was fooling them, but others looked between Jeno and Ten in alarm.

“I can’t… breathe,” Jeno announced as the soldiers dispersed around again. Realization hit him after speaking out loud, his face progressing into the most angered expression that Ten had ever seen on him. “What the hell is Jaemin doing?”

Ten sent him a condescending smile, not believing that was the reason. “You’d only feel it if he was doing something very extreme.”

“Oops,” Youngho chirped in, walking past them. He sent Ten a significant glance and patted his lower back, but he focused on Jeno to say, “I think he left with Doyoung and Mark, so…”

Jeno let out a lamenting sound, as if that was enough information, information that just irritated him further. “I’m going to kill them,” he said, matter of fact. Not like he was going to enjoy it, but as if it had to be done. “Jaemin included.”

“Good luck, kid,” Youngho supported him, mouth full.

Ten squinted at him, spotting the great amount of small Energizers that he was carrying on a small tray. He reached for one of them, even though Energizers were practical rather than tasty, and Youngho smiled such a wide smile that one would think he was the devil convincing him to make a bad deal.

“Who gave you food at this time?” Ten pried, the Energizer melting on his tongue. Whatever the flavor was, it was pretty acid and Ten regretted trusting Youngho's choices right away.

Playful, Youngho shrugged, “I have connections. They only give me this garbage, though. Not sure they are good connections.”

Ten couldn't help but wheeze at the way Youngho complained. This was the reason they were partners even though they weren't _natural_ partners. They had never had a connection, not one of those that some of the soldiers had, and therefore convincing the former captains to let them partner up had turned out to be the biggest headache.

When a soldier didn't develop a connection with a natural partner, they were linked to the soldier that complemented them the best in terms of skills. And Ten understood that, of course, but his mindset was different; when you were in the midst of a battleground, the most important thing was your emotional connection to the person that fought beside you. Skills could do only much, but not everything. With Youngho, however, not even speaking out loud was necessary sometimes. A simple glance would be enough for Ten to read his mind, and viceversa, and it had been that way since the first month they had met each other.

Ten was fast and skillful with weapons, while Youngho was a bit clumsier, but he was way smarter than him. There were a few instances Ten managed to keep his body and mind intact just because Youngho had predicted the enemy's moves before they could destroy them. Being skillful with a weapon couldn't replace intelligence. Ten was certain that he had the best partner he could have, and he wouldn't have changed him for anyone.

“Did you hear the rumors?” Youngho whispered then, after looking around to make sure no one was listening.

Ten lifted his eyebrows, “Rumors? I saw Taeyong's face. They aren't rumors.”

Aware that it wasn't a conversation to have in public, they left the lunch room and made their way into one of the empty libraries. It was an old habit of theirs, because a few years ago they had found out that barely anyone used the section for Swords, maybe because no one was being trained for it, or maybe because the place smelt like humidity and dust.

Ten could deal with all the humidity and dust of the world just to delight in this intimacy, though.

Youngho picked a random book from the shelves to pretend and slid over the first chair he found. Ten followed him, not bothering to take a book, and Youngho looked at him over his book and said, “If something happened to Yukhei, we have the right to know.”

“Just because we're his friends doesn't mean we have _rights_ ,” Ten refuted, softly, almost as though he feared damaging Youngho’s hope. Instead of sitting across Youngho, he chose the seat next to him to be able to scrutinize his partner’s expression. “I mean, not for Taeyong."

Youngho just sighed, placing the book on the table and turning to Ten. “I'm so tired,” he said, like one would say _good morning_ or would ask the time.

It was the result of seeing Taeyong erode throughout the years. Being a captain was never easy, and when he had been promoted, both Ten and Youngho knew that it was going to have negative effect on Taeyong as a person, sooner or later. But then Taeyong had fallen in love with Yuta. And then Taeyong’s partner had been murdered. So everything was much worse than they could have ever imagined.

Ten passed his arm around Youngho’s waist, a hard task considering Youngho’s size, and whispered to him, “I know you are.”

“What am I supposed to do with him? Not even Yuta can bring him back.” Youngho rested his chin on his hands, looking like an oversized kid that was sulking about being grounded. Ten understood him. They had put too much faith on Yuta, on love, and that wasn’t enough when people around you were dying – not when you had lost the most important person in your life. “I thought he could. But instead Taeyong is just destroying him.”

“Yuta is stronger than he looks.”

“I don’t want him to be strong to put up with Taeyong,” Youngho replied right away, face scrunched in disappointment. “I want him to be happy.”

Ten fell into silence, not knowing how to console him. First of all, because it was touching that Youngho believed there could be happiness in a place like this; perhaps that was why the two of them were happy, becoming a rare duo among soldiers. Second, because Youngho was right: Yuta deserved someone that cared about him, but it wasn’t easy to fall out of love with someone that once made you happy.

“You know? We have simulation practice next week,” Ten commented, changing the topic, since the silence was enough of a sign for them to move onto a brighter conversation without the need to say it out loud.

That snapped Youngho out of his concern, a smirk blooming on his lips at the news. Ten caressed his cheek, well aware that Youngho never checked their schedules and never would, but that was just part of who he was.

“With the juniors?”

“Sadly,” Ten lamented, laughing.

“Why sadly? They are fun to practice with.”

They were, indeed, but battling against a bunch of young adults with their hormones out of control was never _completely fun_. Ten had been one of them not long ago, so he knew the feeling like the back of his hand, and he could imagine Jaemin and Jeno falling first during the simulation due to their personal problems. Chenle and Jisung would go after them, because Chenle had been accumulating tension since his injury. And the atmosphere overall was depressing and nerve-wrecking since they had lost Jungwoo. 

“Please, the current situation is a disaster. Most partners want to shoot each other rather than fighting the rest,” Ten reminded Youngho, who dismissed him with a hand wave. Ten slapped it away, offended, and murmured, “And we don’t have Yukhei… or Jungwoo.”

 

 

 

  **֍   Jeno. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

At least Mark had the decency to look apologetic, though chances were that it was because Jeno’s screams had scared him to death. Doyoung had only agreed to stop the experiment when Jeno grabbed a machine that weighed around 50 kilograms and threatened to throw it against the tank, though. Even after Doyoung gave into his demands, Jeno still wanted to do it out of pettiness.

Jeno was panicking, of course, because spotting Jaemin inside the tank _dying_ was much worse than the other possibilities he had imagined. It wasn’t just panic. He was terribly angry at him, and as soon as Doyoung activated the tank’s lid, Jeno climbed it to drag Jaemin out by the hair.

“Have you lost your mind?” Jeno reproached right away.

Despite Jeno’s harshness, Jaemin clung to him in desperation, confused by the lack of oxygen in his brain. Jeno could have pitied him, but not when he had volunteered himself for this madness. Still, given that Jaemin’s circumstances weren’t ideal to defend himself, Jeno limited the interaction to carry him on his shoulders and bring him down.

Mark ran to them with four towels, which was excessive, but Jeno didn’t say anything. They made Jaemin sit down on the heated floor, and Jeno kneeled down to dry him whole, one towel in his hair and one towel for the rest of his body. Mark tried to assist, but he backed away when Jeno sent him an intimidating stare for touching Jaemin. For hurting Jaemin in first place.

“How do you feel?” Mark asked him, biting his lower lip.

Jeno glared at him, protective. “How do you think he feels?”

Mark took a deep breath, and though it was obvious he was afraid of Jeno – he had always been – he managed to reply, “He’s wearing a vital stabilizer, he shouldn’t feel _that_ bad.”

“A _what_?”

Doyoung stepped in between them, almost as if he intended to excuse Mark and take all the blame. Jeno knew that he was at fault, anyhow, because Mark was only following orders and learning. He wasn’t learning good ethics though, in Jeno’s opinion, but it was hard to learn such thing from someone that had been involved in the war for as long as Doyoung had been.

“How did you know that he was in danger?” Doyoung questioned Jeno, not even glancing at Jaemin.

“Are you kidding me? You know how the connection works, if your partner can’t handle the pain alone, it travels to you,” Jeno explained, but Doyoung already knew that. Everyone did. Jaemin trembled under the towels, and Jeno clenched his fists, frustrated. “I was _drowning_ too.”

Doyoung clicked his tongue, disappointed, and spun around to talk to Mark, “Damn, maybe we should try the stabilizer while both of them are wearing it.”

“Fuck off, I’m not joining the experiment,” Jeno protested. He brought Jaemin closer, arms around his hips, and added, “Neither is Jaemin, by the way.”

“He can make his own decisions,” Doyoung pointed out, amused, as if he would enjoy seeing Jeno try to convince Jaemin of how much of an idiot was.  

Jeno refuted, “Apparently not good ones.”

Although Jeno showed some interest in the belt as Mark explained what its purpose was, he didn’t even give them the chance to offer joining the experiment together. Jeno couldn’t bear Jaemin’s suffering, for he already had enough of a bad time during real battles, and they weren’t supposed to be guinea pigs. Not even if Jaemin had been spiraling into self-destructive tendencies lately.

“Are you mad at me?” Jaemin asked him once he had totally warmed up; his voice still sounded sore, since he had swallowed water, and he was putting his clothes on too slowly to assure that the experiment hadn’t harmed him.

“Yes,” Jeno said, sincere, because there wasn’t any point in hiding it. “I’m going to force you to sleep for the rest of the day.”

Almost as if he appreciated it, Jaemin didn’t fight further, not even attempting to apologize for worrying Jeno. Jeno was aware that Jaemin himself wasn’t on the best terms with him, since he had ignored him for days – not voluntarily, but because the infirmary had him busy enough. Word spread fast in the unit, and Jeno had overheard other soldiers commenting that Jaemin was pissed. He didn’t seem to be pissed, but that was because he softened in front of Jeno and reserved the ranting for his friends.

Doyoung was still complaining by the time they left the technology station. Jeno swore that Doyoung was the danger personified, with legs and eyes and a mouth that could talk anyone into anything. He loved playing gamed with technology, and it was too risky to play games during war.

Jeno tucked his arm through Jaemin’s, and it would have been a natural, daily gesture, but the way Jaemin swayed towards him hinted that he needed the physical support.

“How did you let them rope you into this?” Jeno protested again, indignant. “Maybe I should bring you to the infirma-”

“No,” Jaemin refused. Firm, grazing aggressiveness. Jeno didn’t dare to finish the sentence. “I’m fine. I’m not going there.”

At that time of the day, the dorms were empty. Most juniors went out during their free time, but they couldn’t leave the facility and visit the city without official permission, which only was an option on important dates. Part of being a soldier meant accepting that you wouldn’t have enough freedom to live your own life, and therefore everyone stayed in the forest and the gardens around the facility.

Jeno remembered how once Youngho had told him that they gave up on their lives so that other people could live. He didn’t mind. It was the reason he had decided to become a soldier, unlike other kids that had started their training for some sort of army glorification.

Jaemin sat on his bed, hair still wet, and looked up at Jeno with a questioning expression. It was then when Jeno realized he had been silent for too long, and even if he was keeping their connection to a minimum, he still could feel Jaemin’s nervousness through it. Also embarrassment, and a great amount of confused, frustrated affection.

“Am I being childish?” Jaemin whispered, avoiding his gaze. He stared at his own shoes, hands on his lap, head hanging low.

Jeno had never lied to him, and he wasn’t going to begin now, so he squatted down before him and rested his chin on Jaemin’s knee. Still, Jaemin didn’t dare to make eye contact.

“Yeah,” Jeno answered, and Jaemin cracked a bitter smile. “I know you don’t want to go to the infirmary. But not even for Yukhei? Aren’t you going to visit him?”

It was true that they weren’t allowed to visit him, but all of them knew that they could skip certain rules. Jeno shouldn’t even be allowed daily into the infirmary, and yet he was. Besides, he was sure that as soon as the news of Yukhei waking up scattered, soldiers would trespass to visit every night.

So Jaemin, who still didn’t want to set a single foot on the infirmary, could only reply, “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

 

   **֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Yukhei dreamed about Jungwoo.

He dreamed about happy memories, and when he woke up, every one of them dissipated in the darkness of the room. The room’s door was open, so the only light came from the weak lamps of the hall. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and someone softly pressed a cloth against it, wiping it away. The person didn’t smell like Renjun, like nurse’s clothes and sterility, but he resulted familiar to Yukhei.

“Don’t move,” Yuta’s voice hummed. Yukhei shouldn’t have been surprised, because of course Yuta would be the one to be beside his bed when he regained consciousness. It couldn’t have been any other way. “There’s a force field around you so you can’t leave the bed.”

Yukhei cursed under his breath. No one liked being chained to a bed, and less after spending weeks inside a capsule. Less when he was supposed to be after Jungwoo, not resting on a bed and getting treated like a doll. But he obeyed Yuta.

“Am I prisoner now?” Yukhei drowsily grumbled.

It was a joke and Yuta, despite being tender, scoffed at how bad it was. “This is why we don’t let kids take drugs. Your sense of humor becomes shit.”

“It was always shit.”

“Touché.”

There was a long silence while Yuta dampened the cloth and caressed Yukhei’s whole face with it. Yuta’s presence meant many things. He had never been considered apt to lead the unit with Taeyong, although he had become his partner and should have taken such role. People said he was too soft, and they were right. None of them were too soft in a conventional sense, yet Yuta cared and worried for them, which put him in a sensible position. A weakness, Taeyong had told him once, and visiting Yukhei in the middle of the night was a clear proof of it.

“Did Taeyong let you be here?” Yukhei pried once Yuta had gone back to one of the chairs.

“Of course not,” he answered, laughing. He leaned all the way back, visibly relaxed because Yukhei wasn’t giving signs of feeling bad or having a breakdown. The third time was a charm, and this was the third time Yukhei woke up. “You’ll be discharged in a few days, so I had to talk to you. I know you want information that it’s currently classified, and when I saw your eyes the other day, I knew what you were planning to do.”

Yukhei wondered if Yuta was disposed to go this far. It implied betraying Taeyong to some extent, even if Taeyong didn’t trust him to begin with. He reckoned that their situation wasn’t ideal, and it wasn’t the first time that Yukhei feared that he could end up in that sort of relationship, where your partner made you feel disgraceful instead of safe and happy.

But he wasn’t going to miss this chance. Yuta wanted to help because Yukhei had – or used to have – what Yuta never had: a partner that loved and cherished him.

Yukhei looked at the ceiling for a second, evaluating what he could say not to scare Yuta away, and then murmured, “Who was his partner when he went missing?”

“Donghyuck. He’s in a capsule right now.”

Holding back the urge to protest, Yukhei stared at Yuta. Both of them were aware that it hadn’t been a good idea. Donghyuck and Jungwoo didn’t complement each other, neither in skills or personality, and Yukhei’s heart clenched upon realizing that they had tempted death, and death had heard the call.

Yukhei lifted his arm tentatively and touched his own face to check if he was dreaming or not. He wasn’t.

“So you didn’t have a chance to interrogate him?”

“Don’t use _interrogate_ for one of your friends, Yukhei,” Yuta reprimanded him, no trace of guilt for scolding someone that was on a hospital bed. The unit’s stability was vital for them, problems and fights aside, and doubting a soldier that was one of your brothers could have disastrous consequences. Not as if Yukhei suspected of Donghyuck for any reason. He would have suspected of anyone that was with Jungwoo when he disappeared. “And no, we didn’t have the chance to ask Donghyuck what happened. He was unconscious when we found him.”

Yukhei felt like laughing. Classified information? They didn’t even have the basic information. Yukhei would halt Donghyuck’s program if it was necessary just to know what happened to them. He would do anything to track Jungwoo down.

There had to be a reason why, whoever took Jungwoo with them, only kidnapped Jungwoo and not Donghyuck.

“I’m sorry, Yukhei,” Yuta carefully said, and there was sincerity in his words. “I really am.”

Yukhei nodded. He understood that receiving pity shouldn’t anger him, but that pity brought with it conclusions that Yukhei wasn’t going to accept that easily.

“I do feel him dead,” Yukhei affirmed. It wasn’t directed to anyone, just to the emptiness of the room, the small escape of that door. A light twitched in the hall, and rushed steps could be heard far away. “But I won’t believe it until I see with my own eyes.”

Yuta didn’t show any intention of contradicting him. He wasn’t here to convince Yukhei how stupid that was, and perhaps Yuta himself needed physical proof to have a proper goodbye with Jungwoo as well.

Still, he pointed out, “Taeyong will never allow a party for it, you know that.”

 “I know that.”

Indiscipline of that caliber would probably expel him from the unit. But Yukhei couldn’t worry about that. Any other unit would kill for having a soldier like him, and if the upper army forbid them to admit him in, he was ready to drop out of the military altogether. It didn’t make sense without Jungwoo, anyway, and he was disposed to hard carry some of his friends out of this hellhole if it came to that.

“I’m going to bring him back, dead or alive,” Yukhei announced, and the silence came back like a wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it's not too confusing as I'm including new characters D:  
> I completely made up the military system (therefore the fic format changes) so at some point I will leave a small - or big lol- explanation over how it works  
> have a nice day everyone :3


	4. 60 seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuta didn’t fall for Taeyong’s tricks, except when he needed to, when he still hoped for them to be like they were before. It was dirty to take advantage of that idiotic faith, but Taeyong had never played fair.

**֍   Chenle. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

The boys were laughing again.

Chenle didn’t care much about it, but up to that day it still astounded him that other soldiers found such a great amusement in his suffering. Girls had stop finding it funny on the second day, but somehow burning yourself was an infinite source of laughter for the male soldiers.

Maybe it had to do with jealousy, because Chenle had arrived just two months ago and had managed to climb ranks up so fast that he was about to be assigned to a specialization. Besides, he had run into someone who he had a connection with. Then he had befriended Mark, who spoiled him with artifacts that no one could touch, and much to his disgrace, explosives. Although luck seemed to be on his side, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t overwhelmed with how he had completed all the requirements to upgrade so fast.

Even developing a connection usually would take some time; at least exchanging names, smiling at each other, touch each other. But Chenle had made eye contact with Jisung on the first day, across a training field, and had immediately known that he wouldn’t get rid of that boy anytime soon.

Jisung had been very upset over having a partner. It had been obvious because he didn’t hide his expressions well – Chenle found out later that he did it on purpose – and because after all, Chenle could feel Jisung’s most intense emotions like they were his own emotions. It had hindered Chenle’s mind: he didn’t know which one was the confused one, which one was the angry one, or which one was so scared that he was going to have a breakdown anytime soon.

Their connection was too strong, too untamed.

So the boys were laughing, and so was Jisung. Jisung had walked into the trainee common room and realized right away that the soldiers were making fun of Chenle’s mistake. Even though the atmosphere was playful, and Jisung laughed too, he punched one of the soldiers on the shoulder. It was a warning disguised as a friendly gesture, and people weren’t fools, not when it came to Jisung. Laughter died down in the span of a heartbeat.

Chenle rolled his eyes. You could count on Jisung to be dramatic despite being aware that his partner didn’t even care. A small amount of shame was easy to handle for Chenle.

“Hey, Le,” Jisung called, turning around to face Chenle, who was comfortably lying on one of the couches. “Wanna show them your stomach?”

Chenle scrunched his face at the proposal, not able to discern what Jisung was planning. But Jisung smirked at him.

“Come on,” he insisted, interlacing his hands behind his back. Perhaps a stranger would have registered that as a cute gesture, but not a single soul in the common room believed it for a moment. Chenle could spot the beginning of something akin to panic on the soldiers’ faces. “They’ve been talking about it so much, I can’t help but think that they want an excuse for you to take your shirt off. I even heard someone saying you don’t have a belly button anymore.”

Chenle didn’t laugh; he choked on his own saliva and jumped out of the couch, trying to save the remainders of his pride. Jisung didn’t worry for him, almost as if he expected such reaction. Still, no one was laughing. The boys that had been mocking him were now blushing – Chenle wondered if Jisung was right, if he was really that smart to conclude that all that harassment was only the military version of pulling pigtails – and were clearly intimidated by the way Jisung loomed over them with an apparently harmless smile.

“No, then? We’re keeping our uniforms on?” Jisung repeated, faking disappointment.

“Shut up now,” Chenle ordered him, feelings his cheeks heat up. It wasn’t even a big deal; they had gone through training sessions that implied being naked in the snow, but the situation Jisung had created was embarrassing. He wanted it to be embarrassing, of course, but he hadn’t thought Chenle would feel affected as well. “I don’t need a belly button for anything, anyway.”

Jisung dismissed him, as if Chenle was interrupting him. He did that very often, not because he didn’t listen to Chenle, but because he refused to accept anyone’s opinion on anything. Jeno assured him that it was the reason they were a perfect pair: obstinacy could only be fought with more obstinacy. It was easy to affirm such things when you didn’t have to argue with Jisung every day and obtain laughter as the only response.

After carefully inspecting the common room and the way everyone avoided his gaze, Jisung seemed to decide that his job there was finished, so he twirled around and left through the door he had used to enter. Chenle didn’t move at first, and the frustration took its time to occupy his mind.

Jisung couldn’t just walk in and manipulate Chenle’s relationships like that, even if his intention was honorable. Which Chenle doubted.

Chenle sprung out and ran for the door, which in the end wasn’t necessary: Jisung was right outside, standing in the hall and facing the door. Asmile appeared on his face when he spotted Chenle. Jisung _knew_ what Chenle’s logic would make him do, maybe because he was able to read Chenle’s emotions with too much precision, or maybe because he was a little shit.

The latter was the option that Chenle would bet for.

“What are you doing?” Chenle spat at him, ashamed of his own transparency.

Jisung didn’t even blink at the question.

“Having fun,” he cheekily replied, tilting his head to the side. Chenle should have figured. He nudged Chenle’s shoulder, nonchalant, and continued, “You?”

Chenle hated that. Jisung could break his arm and he would talk about it as if they were discussing the weather, which was without a doubt a positive mindset to become a soldier, but Chenle wanted his real emotions. The ones he felt through the connection but that never bloomed on Jisung’s face.

“I’m serious,” Chenle compelled.

Perhaps due to the tone Chenle used, about to lose his patience, Jisung clicked his tongue and answered truthfully this time, “Marking territory.”

It had to be a joke, despite Jisung’s solemnity, and Chenle remained speechless for a few seconds under Jisung’s stare. His satisfaction became clear upon Chenle’s silence. A small win in their particular tiny, childish war.

“Marking _what_?” was all Chenle could say, even after a while. They weren’t dogs, they didn’t mark territory, right? That was ridiculous.

“You’re my partner,” Jisung explained, shrugging, as if that was the key to all the mysteries of the universe. “You’re kind of mine. Only I can make fun of you.”

 _You’re kind of mine_. Chenle inhaled. _You’re kind of mine._

Jisung inclined his head, inspecting Chenle’s face in concern, “Calm down, I can feel what you’re feeling and it’s _too much_.”

Chenle would have been mortified, yet he only experienced rage when Jisung spun on his heels, ending their conversation, and scurried away among a bunch of soldiers that were walking down the stairs.

Mind blank, not worried about how around twenty soldiers glanced at him, Chenle managed to shout at Jisung a last, “You have issues, you know that?”

But Chenle had the biggest issue.

 

 

 

 

**֍  Taeyong. Land forces. Captain № 5  ֍**

 

Taeyong deleted the third message from Youngho, in the last hour, calling him an asshole. The main problem of the strategic virtual glasses was that other soldiers could check if the captain was online. Doyoung had said that it was necessary because, as the captain, he had to be accessible anytime, anywhere, but Taeyong had always suspected that it was Doyoung’s way of saying that no, he wasn’t going to give him a functional device for him to evade from the world and his responsibilities.

Taeyong surely didn’t yearn for such responsibilities. It wasn’t a matter of regretting that once upon a time he had given into the promotion. For starters, he regretted setting a foot in this place, and secondly, he regretted falling in love with Yuta.

If Youngho was bothering him after midnight, that meant that Yuta wasn’t feeling well. Taeyong couldn’t know, since they weren’t natural partners, and in the beginning of their relationship that had been a plus. It wasn’t a plus now.

Taeyong had been used to read Eunwoo’s feelings even when he didn’t intend to, so Yuta had been a change, a mystery, someone that hadn’t belonged to him without a reason and that Taeyong had carefully approached.

Ironically, people had thought that Taeyong would fall in love with Eunwoo at some point, that they would spend their whole lives together. It was almost the norm with natural partners, though there were exceptions, because knowing someone so deeply inevitably dragged them to have some sort of feelings for their partners. Eunwoo had never been interested in having a sexual relationship with him, however, and the line between platonic love and romantic love had always been blurred between them.

Then Yuta had appeared, and Taeyong had forgotten about everyone else. Eunwoo had never resented him; he had been nice to Yuta, given his approval and let them enjoy their relationship.

But even if your partner wasn’t your romantic partner, losing them meant losing everything. Taeyong had lost his mind along the way, and Yuta had tried to root him, but Yuta wasn’t strong enough to hold his sanity down. No one would have been.

Although Taeyong would rarely resort to visiting Yuta – they slept in separate rooms because they couldn’t stand each other anymore -  he hopped off the bed with a sigh. Sometimes guilt grew until he was unable to handle it, and tonight was one of those nights, so he left his room and silently made his way to Yuta’s place. There were just a bunch of soldiers in the halls, those with a night watching shift, and all of them saluted Taeyong when he passed by.

The soldiers in Yuta’s hall, however, couldn’t hide their surprise when they noticed where Taeyong was headed to. One of them opened her mouth as to protest, to tell Taeyong that he needed explicit permission to barge in someone’s room, but she pressed her lips together when Taeyong gave her a look. She was still glaring when Taeyong knocked on the door, though.

“Yes?” Yuta’s voice responded from inside. As Taeyong had suspected, he didn’t sound fine, but barely anyone would have detected the inflection in his voice.

Taeyong gulped, resigned. “It’s me.”

There was a deafening silence coming from the room, and Taeyong had to wait several seconds until Yuta moved from wherever he was, steps slowly approaching the door. Yuta didn’t welcome him with warmth or a smile, or a simple hello, almost like he was able to tell Taeyong’s intentions.

Yuta left the door half open, stressing that he didn’t want Taeyong to enter. “What are you doing here?”

A lie was unavoidable. In theory, Taeyong shouldn’t have been afraid of the truth, but the glint in Yuta’s eyes showed that he wouldn’t be lenient with Taeyong right then. So he had to lie to push through Yuta’s barriers.

“We need to discuss the report your Cyber department made,” Taeyong murmured, coughing to clear his throat.

As he had expected, Yuta didn’t believe him. His eyebrows shoot up, a crease in his forehead, but there was a seed of doubt among all that. At this point of their relationship, Yuta didn’t fall for Taeyong’s tricks, except when he _needed_ to, when he still hoped for them to be like they were before. It was dirty to take advantage of that idiotic faith, but Taeyong had never played fair.

“You either have to call an emergency meeting or wait until morning,” Yuta answered at last, making his decision obvious, noting that he knew what Taeyong wanted from him. “My room isn’t the place to work.”

Not waiting for Taeyong to retort, Yuta began closing the door. But Taeyong didn't need to force himself in with strength, not physically, and he looked around to make sure the soldier from before wasn't eavesdropping, before pleading, “Let me in, please.”

Taeyong released what he had been holding inside. A captain didn't plead. Not in the battleground, not in private meetings, not with his natural partner, and less with his artificial partner. He never begged for Yuta, because Yuta had always indulged him without the need to do so.

Now they were at a point of no return, and Taeyong had to open up himself or Yuta would block him out of the way forever. Taeyong wasn't a fool. He knew that Yuta had been plotting behind his back, and that was the last straw for their relationship.

“Yuta, please,” Taeyong repeated, watching how Yuta's mask broke in front of him, piece by piece, “Don't make me go on.”

Yuta's hand trembled on the door frame, maybe from the fear of having Taeyong back. Taeyong wished that it was true, that Yuta believed in him again and Taeyong managed not to fail him once again, but that was unlikely. Yet Yuta stepped back, allowing him in, and Taeyong took his chance.

Yuta's bedroom was undone, and around fifteen devices were scattered on it, some of which Taeyong couldn't even name. He couldn't keep up with all the technology that Doyoung and his team invented, and less with what use the Cyber department was giving it to them. In theory, Yuta was in charge of that part, except he skipped the other part in which he had to notify Taeyong of all advances. Taeyong was too much of a coward to initiate such conversations, aware that it made Yuta uncomfortable.

Yuta sat down on his bed, pushing away a twinkling device, but he didn't invite Taeyong to do the same.

Instead he looked up at Taeyong, who stood observing the rest of the room, and asked, “What's the issue?”

Taeyong didn't snap back to reality immediately. The last time he had been in this room, there wasn't such a big mess in it; it was as if Yuta had lost control of himself, of his belongings, of _everything_.

He had to make a great effort to stare into Yuta's eyes to reply, “You think that we're about to be attacked?”

“My unit thinks so,” Yuta affirmed, nodding. “We don't have evidence, per se, but you know that all our technology, the one that is connected to the cloud, has been malfunctioning for almost three weeks.”

Taeyong vaguely remembered something along those lines. The truth is that three weeks ago they had talked, and then fucked, and then argued so badly that Taeyong winded up in his room crying. So the job issues had been drowned among all his personal issues.

Pressing a hand against his forehead, he tried to recall what Yuta had said exactly about his suspicions, “But you told me you always found mistakes in the program, isn't that right?”

“Yes, but I trust my unit. They're stupid mistakes. Very noob-like, and I'm sure no one would do them so often and in so many different areas.”

“Different mistakes every time?”

“Yes.”

Taeyong let out a sigh. These were bad news, if he was being optimistic, and disastrous news if he was being realistic. He felt his legs fail him, a sign of weakness that he despised, and he decided that he preferred invading Yuta's bed than falling on his floor. He moved away the rest of the devices and sat besides Yuta. In the blink of an eye, he could sense Yuta sending him a concerned look; he was an expert at reading him in his lowest times, after all.

But Taeyong didn't budge. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his own head, looking at the floor, “So your hypothesis is...?”

Yuta took a second, as if evaluating if this information would affect Taeyong, as if Taeyong's health was more important than the army and their security.

“Someone hacked into our system and is implementing small errors to see if their hacking is working. And to see if we do something about it or we're confident of our security system,” he explained. He wasn't alarmed, or scared, just putting the cards on the table. They were trained to maintain such attitude, and Yuta had always been a great soldier, except when it came to Taeyong. “Once they're done with this tentative phase, they will be able to shut down all our technology at once. And then we're fucked.”

Taeyong turned his head and found Yuta's eyes on him, staring at him in a way that he shouldn't have; that's why Yuta looked away as soon as they made eye contact.

“Who are _them_?” Taeyong whispered, feeling overwhelmed for different reasons.

“I don't know. They're completely invisible in our system.”

Yuta didn't add anything else, but his body moved. His fingers caressed the back of Taeyong's hair, first tentative, as if Taeyong was a dog that could bite him, and then they became firm. His hands travelled down Taeyong's nape, and Taeyong leaned back, following Yuta's touch.

“You didn't come here for this,” Yuta murmured.

It wasn't a question. Yuta had known from the beginning, and that was the reason he had hesitated over letting him into his room.

Taeyong didn't dare to look at him, “No.”

Yuta could have drawn back right then, but if he had done it, Taeyong would have surrendered. And Yuta knew this, knew him too well to allow him to spiral down. Despite how messed up their relationship was after Eunwoo's death, Yuta was the only person who could truly understand him. He had kept so many soldiers alive when Taeyong had been agonizing, and up to that day he still did, giving him the emotional support once he was about to break down.

“You're so selfish,” Yuta told him, and that wasn't a question either. “When will you stop being this selfish?”

Taeyong felt like crying, but he didn't cry in front of Yuta. He allowed him to grab his chin, so softly that Taeyong could have felt himself break at being treated that way again. One stare was enough for Taeyong to lead the next step, though regret was beating inside his chest even before moving, and he met Yuta's lips in the middle. It wasn't a delicate kiss, despite Yuta's doubts, and Taeyong had to let go after a few seconds, troubled.

Yuta didn't question his choice. He just stayed still, centimeters away from Taeyong's lips, waiting.

“Why did you visit Yukhei in the middle of the night?” Taeyong asked.

Much to his surprise, a low, hushed laugh escaped Yuta's mouth, “Jealous?”

Taeyong couldn't answer that. Perhaps he was. In general, he had been jealous of anyone that had a sane, nice relationship with Yuta, or anyone that made him happy. Not because he preferred that Yuta was miserable, but because he had lost the ability to make him happy. Besides, Yukhei was funny, handsome, admired by every soldier in the army, and often had more power and credibility than any of the captains.

“I guess,” Taeyong confessed. He should have been able to feel embarrassment, but in that moment he just felt a void of feelings for anything that wasn't Yuta. “I set more sentinels around the infirmary because I thought you might visit him. And you did. I'm sorry.”

Yuta's hands had frozen on Taeyong's hips. Taeyong had talked too much, he was aware of that, after so many months of lies and awkward silences; they were supposed to have sex, joke around and then fight, not admit that they were jealous, that they missed each other, or needed each other's affection.

It was too overwhelming for Yuta, because he only could say, “What?”

Taeyong wasn't disposed to explain, since he wasn't ready to confess more beyond that. It had been hard enough. _I want you back, and I want myself back_ , was too scary to say it out loud. So he merely lifted his chin, bringing their lips closer, and sealed the unspoken deal, wishing that this time would be different.

 

 

 

 

**֍  Jaemin. Air forces. Unit № 56  ֍**

 

Among all the suicidal decisions Jaemin could have made for Jeno, this was one of the worst. It didn’t take him by surprise, however, because he had been sensing Jeno’s restlessness through the connection since days ago. Out of respect, he hadn’t asked. Besides, Jeno could have been nervous over Renjun, and Jaemin avoided hearing anything about him at all costs.

He should have intuited that, considering Yukhei’s situation, Jeno’s uneasiness would be about him. Between Jeno and him, Jaemin was undoubtedly the most imprudent, but Jeno’s heart was so big that he would run straight into problems just to help one of his friends. This was the case.

First of all, visiting Yukhei at the infirmary at night was forbidden. Second, he wasn’t healthy on physical terms or mental terms, and yet he had summoned most of their friends that night for a meeting. The guy couldn’t even get out of the bed, but he had enough determination to plan what he was going to do once he was able to walk.

Jeno hadn’t told him until there were only three hours left for the meeting, with pitiful eyes and expectations that he shouldn’t have hold. Jaemin wished he had declined, but that meant giving his back both to Jeno and Yukhei.

“Yuta sent us a message warning us not to use the main entrance,” Jeno announced as he pulled his black jumpsuit up. It was tight everywhere, but flexible, and that’s why soldiers made use of it even for casual circumstances. Jaemin observed him as he finished preparing, and then Jeno looked at him and added, “I think we have to enter through the window.”

“As if there aren’t sentinels outside,” Jaemin remarked, worried. Visiting Yukhei without Taeyong’s permission or, for that matter, any nurse’s permission was dangerous enough, but also risking getting caught in the middle of it? He didn’t sign up for that. “This is insane.”

Jeno smiled at him as if he was considering if it was appropriate to make fun of him. Jaemin frowned, however, so Jeno limited himself to explain, “We’re not climbing up from the gardens. We’re lowering ourselves down from Jisung’s room.”

That was much worse. It was almost one in the morning, and they were going to be playing on the front façade of the building. Of course they owned adhesive gloves and shoes that would make the process much easier, but if they were surprised utilizing them for illegal purposes, they would be banned from touching them again.

Jeno whined, “You’re a pilot, can you not make that face? We’re not jumping from the highest level.”

Jaemin rubbed his face and nodded, not wanting to be a load that Jeno had to hard carry. It wasn’t the first time that they had sneaked out at night. During their first year, when they hadn’t even been assigned to a force, they shared room with a bunch of soldiers; it was almost a habit to escape on Fridays to make out in those secret passages that weren’t such a big secret after all. It was common knowledge among all soldiers, and sentinels avoided the passages as a way to protect the only escape they had from the reality of the army.

It had been a long time since he had done something like that with Jeno. They had their own room now, they were too busy, and Jeno chose working in the infirmary over lying with him in bed and talking about their stupid training routine.

“Fine,” Jaemin grunted. “But if we get caught, you take responsibility. I will say you seduced me into this.”

Jeno saluted him, too happy to be a positive signal, and took his hand to pull him out of the bed, “I love responsibility. Now move your ass.”

By the time they arrived at Jisung’s room, Jisung and Chenle were waiting for them, his heads together and looking out of the window as they bickered. Apparently they were the last to be present, and everyone else had already climbed down the window, except for the four of them. Jaemin had no idea how many people Yukhei intended to gather, but four persons already seemed excessive. It was _scary_.

“You first, kids. I don't let anyone be alone in my room,” Jisung jokingly told them, waving at the window. Then he pointed at Chenle. “Except this one. He cleans well.”

“You know you're privileged thanks to him, right?” Jaemin reminded him, walking past them. Jeno helped him to secure his gloves, and then went onto his knees to do the same with his shoes, though it wasn't necessary. They had checked it at least four times by then. “We didn't have a room for ourselves when we were your rank. It's because Chenle is a motherfucker that you get to have a private room.”

Chenle smiled at them, satisfied, but Jisung merely scoffed, “That's offensive. Who says I’m not the motherfucker?”

All in all, Jaemin would have sworn that Jisung looked proud of Chenle, as if he loved to show off his partner’s skills anytime and this conversation was the perfect moment to do so.

Jaemin passed his leg over the window’s stool, careful, and Jeno rushed to grab him by the waist just in case. He didn’t pay much attention to Jeno’s excessive concern, staring at Jisung over his shoulder instead.

“You should work harder. I bet Chenle is going to be assigned to Yukhei’s unit, and you can’t fall behind, you know that, right?” he pointed out, delighted.

Judging by the look on Jisung’s face, that was a fear he had been mulling over. It was healthy to put it in words, even if his lack of experience didn’t let him be aware of that; but Jaemin knew, had experienced it in his own skin.

Without any more words, Jaemin grabbed the edge of the window and set his feet against the titanium. All their buildings were made of titanium to be prepared in case of an attack; it was pure protocol, since most modern bombs could blow anything up, from the top to the foundation.

Jaemin wasn’t afraid of heights, so the only downside of climbing down the façade was to jump into the right room. Luckily, Ten was peeking out of the window, and Jaemin only had to follow the sound of his voice to reach the room. Ten grabbed him by the hips and drew him in, which was a relief even if Jaemin didn’t need help. It was a gesture of comradeship, which was usual among units and the whole army, but it felt different when it came to them, because they were friends beyond being soldiers.

Ten, Youngho and Kun were the only ones who were scattered around the room. Yukhei, on the other hand, was sitting up on his bed, looking like he hadn't brushed his hair in days - which was probably not true, because Renjun must have taken care of that - and dark circles from the amount of drugs he had been on.

No matter how hard the situation had been for Yukhei, he still had the nerve to scoff at Jaemin as soon as he recognized him.

“Welcome, piece of shit that didn’t visit me,” he reproached, no trace of shame for insulting someone that was there just because he asked.

If Yukhei had spent the last days being babied and resting in bed, Jaemin reckoned that he wouldn't be appreciate Jaemin doing the same. But Jaemin was great at being sincere, so he didn't have any problem to say supposedly hurtful truths.

“Thank you,” Jaemin replied. Despite how much he had avoided the infirmary, he felt a surge of gratitude at finally seeing Yukhei. Fucked up, but alive. “You look awful. I didn’t want to ruin my fantasies.”

Yukhei laughed, which accentuated the symptoms of tiredness in his face, “Ah, you’re one of those fantasizing about soldiers from the higher units?”

“I’m pretty sure he prefers Jungwoo, though,” Youngho chirped in, joining the fun. “And so does Jeno.”

It was inevitable for Jaemin to tense up. Youngho was speaking as though Jungwoo was there, in the room next to theirs, or sleeping somewhere in the building. But Jungwoo was dead, and all of them knew. It didn’t seem to be right to treat the topic as if it hadn’t happened, because that wouldn’t benefit Yukhei on the long run.

However, there wasn’t any inquietude after Youngho said that, and when Jaemin cautiously studied Yukhei’s features, he found him smirking.

“I do too,” Yukhei agreed. “Too bad for you all, he’s mine.”

Jeno was the next to jump through the window, so Jaemin dragged him in like Ten had done to him a minute ago. Although Jeno did make sure that Jaemin was fine, one second later he strode to embrace Yukhei into a hug, no matter he had talked to him almost every day.

Yukhei pulled a face, but he laughed, and all of them accommodated around him while waiting for Jisung and Chenle. Both came in making a fuss, Jisung scolding Chenle for bragging when he went down, and Chenle not understanding what he was mad about – he had performed the stunt like he could, but he wasn’t aware that he was so good at everything that Jisung supposed that Chenle was trying to humiliate him. Perhaps he was.

“The whole family together, again,” Yukhei sighed once everyone had found a place to sit down. “Except Yuta. I guess you all know why I called you?”

Jaemin didn’t know the exact reason, but he suspected it; everyone else, however, gave positive answers, so Jaemin didn’t express his ignorance. Jeno, who was aware of Jaemin’s confusion, simply dedicated him a reassuring smile.

“I lost my connection with Jungwoo,” Yukhei continued, focusing on every one of their faces, one by one, as though he doubted the news had reached them. “But we don’t have a body to confirm that he’s dead. I’m not going to believe it, because this army gives up on its soldiers like we’re disposable toys, even if we belong to the highest units. As far as I know, our connection could be broken for many reasons, but they are uncommon and that’s why no one has even considered them a possibility.”

Yukhei extended his palm towards Kun, giving him a chance to speak. It was his way to signal that Kun had something to announce, and indeed Kun cleared his throat, fretting on the empty bed.

“So Yukhei made me investigate a bit more about connections. You know, not what they teach us during our training, but speculations and ideas that haven’t been proven,” he explained, and even if he looked calm, his excitement was evident. “I looked through the whole library but then I found out that Mark is an expert on connections and he speaks more than he should.”

“Get to the point, yeah?” Ten complained. “We already know Mark has a big mouth. What did he say?”

Kun glared at Ten for interrupting him, yet he still answered, “Doyoung has been suspecting for a while that our enemies have advanced knowledge on connections, and that they might be able to mold them. To break and create them.”

A long silence invaded the room. If Doyoung was right, that implied dangers that they weren’t ready to face, and none of them dared to mention how Jungwoo could have ended up.

On the contrary, Yukhei was unfazed. He must have had enough time to mull over the amount of horrible things that could have happened to Jungwoo. He had already beaten that fear and now there was only determination left. He wasn’t the best soldier for nothing.

“Yes, that could be a good way of recruiting new soldiers,” Yukhei confirmed, realizing that no one else wished to say it out loud. “You break the connection, create a new one with one of your soldiers, and there you have a soldier emotionally compromised, enough not to leave his new partner.”

Jaemin observed the rest of his friends, the horror in their faces, and he understood right away. He couldn’t feel it, however, because his shock overwhelmed any other possible emotion. It was especially hard for him because, unlike the other partners, Jeno had fallen in love with someone else besides him. Because that meant that if connections were malleable, Jeno could break their connection if he wished so; he would be free, and so would be Renjun, to live their life without Jaemin.

Jeno hummed, discreetly caressing Jaemin’s thigh, and asked, “That’s what you think happened to Jungwoo?”

Much to their surprise, Yukhei grinned, but it was full of disdain. “I don’t know anything. But we’re going to find out. Jungwoo doesn’t mean to you what he means to me, I know that, and even if he’s your friend, you’re not forced to join this party. If anyone pulls out in the last second, I just want to ask for secrecy so that we don’t get caught.”

“Yes,” Jeno nodded. And Jaemin was conscious of what Jeno was going to add, and he would have complained, but there was no point. Jeno was stubborn, and if he decided to help Yukhei, Jaemin wasn’t going to let him go alone. “We’re in.”

“We’re good at this,” Youngho agreed, passing an arm around Ten’s shoulders. “It still makes me feel bad that we have to leave Taeyong out of this.”

Ten shook his head, “He’ll never agree to this.”

“We have Yuta on our side, and he'll stay here. We have air, land, cyber forces,” Yukhei counted. Then he pointed at Kun, smiling, “Space force, though I'm not sure how that will help, but who knows?”

“And two noobs,” Jaemin remarked, with the intention to point out that maybe bringing them to a suicidal mission wasn't a great idea. “With only basic training.”

Jisung yelped in protest, offended, but part of being a soldier implied you had to take criticism well. Chenle and Jisung, no matter how superior they were over soldiers of their range, were two partners that didn't control their connection or their abilities, and Jaemin was certain they would be more trouble than assistance.

Yukhei didn't mind the accusation. In fact, he seemed to be thrilled to reply, “Well, I need someone who can blow things up.”

Though Jeno cackled next to him, covering his mouth, he wasn't laughing at Jaemin. Chenle was red in the face because of the joke, but Jaemin couldn't tell if it was embarrassment or just coyness, and Jisung now looked mad for a different reason. Jaemin had witnessed how overprotective he could get over Chenle, and it was beyond amusing.

Jisung didn’t have enough time to defend Chenle. The room’s door was pushed from the outside, because for some reason they hadn’t thought this could happen: that someone would walk into their private, forbidden meeting.

It was Renjun, who Jaemin had only spotted a few times, but he would have recognized him everywhere. His thin frame, his delicate jawline, how he strode as if he was made of air. Jaemin thought that it was unfair. He didn’t want to compete against _that_. Renjun was good, angelical, and he looked the part.

But he was stepping into a room full of alarmed soldiers, and in the blink of an eye Jisung choked him in a headlock. It was a knee jerk reaction, not meant to hurt him, but it triggered the chaos. The silence they were supposed to keep was broken by Jeno screaming and rushing to them, leaping on Jisung, and then Kun holding Jeno back, aware that he wouldn’t be able to measure his strength.

Jaemin reacted in time, as though his body had a brain on its own; he would have never imagined he would have to immobilize Jisung to release Renjun, and less than Jisung was that _strong_. One second after successfully separating Jisung from Renjun, the first came back to his senses, profusely apologizing. Renjun slid down to the floor, holding his own neck and panting.

“What the fuck?” Jeno screamed at Jisung, despite Kun’s attempts to silence him. The last thing they needed was to gather more attention. “Are you fucking blind?”

There were only a few instances Jeno had been that angry, and Jaemin didn’t want to witness it. The emotions that he received through the connection were already difficult to handle, and they were the reason he squatted down with Renjun to check his state. It was weird, and it made Jeno shut up at last, and then silence spread as Jaemin touched Renjun’s neck, looking for red marks. Renjun stared at him, eyes wide, and Jaemin stared back, feeling his own blood pulsing in his neck.

“Well, I guess we have a nurse in the team now,” Yukhei announced, looking at them like they were the most entertaining show he had ever watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more characters D: still a lot to go ~  
> I don't know if anyone noticed but all the chapter titles are actual songs, and there is a reason why I chose those songs for those chapters. I've been making a list with explanations but Idk if anyone would be interested (tho at some point I might start putting titles without any sense, I don't trust my crackhead self lol)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [Curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)!


	5. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaemin looked at Jeno and nodded. They had always protected Donghyuck, and Donghyuck had always protected them. It wasn’t going to change now.

 

**֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

“How does it feel?”

Yukhei didn’t answer right away. It was an odd question. He had his electromagnetic boots on, so the sensation of flying over the ground was familiar to all of them. It couldn’t be that. Yukhei descended as slow as it was possible, landing on the floor until the electromagnetic waves disappeared and he could touch the ground again. He had missed this; not flying, but being able to use his body, to feel useful.

Only then he turned around and faced Jaemin, who was sitting on the sand, not even looking at him. A peek at his face was enough for Yukhei to know what Jaemin was talking about. There wouldn’t any other reason for Jaemin to avoid his gaze, and only Jaemin would choose an open combat field to ask such a personal question, where any other soldier could hear them.

“How does it feel?” Yukhei repeated, scoffing. “Like I’m a motherfucking empty shell. A turtle without meat.”

Jaemin didn’t react, arms around his legs and his chin on his knees, but Yukhei could read through him. Yukhei had never been the type to lie, less to express his thoughts and feelings with delicacy. That was Jungwoo’s job, somehow, to complement Yukhei’s harsh, raw sincerity. He had never been the type to stay in bed either, and that was the reason he was already training, though Renjun had made a fuss over how he couldn’t skip the required period of rest. But he could, or otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to do flips on practice ground and jump over 5 meters with the boots.

He reckoned that he could have passed out on the first try, but it was just for a second, and no one had to know. So there Yukhei was, having angered his nurse, receiving dreadful glances from Taeyong – who indiscreetly observed them through a bulletproof glass – and dealing with Jaemin’s blues.

“You’re so worried over the boy.” Yukhei rolled his eyes, but Jaemin simply looked up at him, as if he wasn’t even going to bother to deny it. As if Renjun was, indeed, worrisome. “It was on your trainee report, you know. _Issues over sharing_. Your boyfriend has another boyfriend, so what?”

Yukhei was aware that he had a point. And he was familiar enough with the human psyche to know that Jaemin had undoubtedly made his own research on partners, soulmates, and extra-partner relationships. Still, jealousy was blinding him. It was normal that Jeno had fallen in love with someone else, but Yukhei supposed that not everyone was ready to accept that soldiers like them, people with connections, couldn’t grow fond of traditional relationships.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring him with us,” Jaemin continued, ignoring Yukhei’s discussion. He signaled Yukhei to come closer so that he could help him to take his boots off, and Yukhei obeyed, though he didn’t need his help. He would have been able to do it with his eyes closed. “He can’t defend himself, and we will be losing time making sure he’s fine.”

That was the most ridiculous argument Yukhei had ever heard. Or perhaps Jaemin ignored Renjun’s background, which wasn’t a crazy possibility; he had been avoiding any information about him, after all, and Renjun didn’t open up easily. Yukhei had managed to know about Renjun’s past only after weeks and weeks of asking personal questions.

Yukhei sat on the ground and extended his legs towards Jaemin, grinning. Jaemin looked unnerved by his happiness, but that merely made Yukhei smile wider.

“Who’s going to aid you when you get shot?” he pointed out as Jaemin pressed the liberation code on his boots. They slipped out of Yukhei’s feet with a soft click, and Yukhei hurried up to take off his tungsten socks. “Listen, Jeno doesn’t spend more time with him than with you. He spends all the fucking day with you, training, then in his free time he goes to the infirmary. You think they have fun there? I can assure you that the infirmary isn’t fun.”

Guilt thundered in Jaemin’s eyes for a second, but he was too good at hiding his emotions when he wanted to. He rarely used that skill, however, because he felt safe around them and they were taught that their feelings were only a weakness when they couldn’t control them – that’s it, accept them. That was exactly what was happening to Jaemin. At first he had been annoyed at the situation, but he had been able to argue over it with Jeno. Now he couldn’t. Now he preferred to be silent, and that was the worst solution.

Yukhei nudged him on the arm, showing his best frown, “The nerve. My partner could be dead and you’re here moping over your partner smooching a pretty boy?”

That shut Jaemin up, though it wasn’t meant to set an awkward atmosphere. Still, Yukhei would have been lying if he had said that Jaemin’s problem was too shallow for him, for his mind and the hundred possibilities he had imagined.

“Do you want to know something very funny?” Yukhei said after a long silence.

Other soldiers were fighting with their boots on, so it was hard to catch Jaemin’s answer over all the noise, “No.”

Yukhei shrugged it off, amused, and told him anyway. “I hit on Renjun when he first arrived here.”

It was satisfactory to witness how Jaemin received the news, torn between laughter and offense. Yukhei understood it. It was uncomfortable that Yukhei had even tried, but it was offensive that another friend of his found Renjun attractive. As if one wasn’t enough, another one just painted Jaemin as the crazy guy.

“What?” Jaemin opened his mouth in shock. “What about Jungwoo?”

Yukhei had explained the mechanics of their relationships thousand times, so he ignored the last question. At this point, it wasn’t because Jaemin didn’t understand it, but because he didn’t want to, and he still thought that Yukhei owed Jungwoo some sort of physical loyalty.

“What?” Yukhei spat back, arched eyebrows as a challenge. “Nothing wrong with it. But Renjun looked at me like I was a bug he had just stepped on. You know, those bugs with yellow blood that stain your shoes when you kill them.”

Much to his shock, Jaemin cackled at that, though he pulled a face afterwards. “Why do you have to be so explicit?”

Yukhei had to bite his tongue not to tell him that he couldn’t be grossed out by insect blood, while he could deal with human blood just fine. It made no sense. Yet again soldiers were odd.

“He doesn’t look at you that way, you know?” Yukhei continued, testing waters.

Jaemin did a bad job at pretending he wasn’t interested, back straightening up but eyes avoiding Yukhei’s gaze, as if he was embarrassed of caring about it.

“Like I’m a bug?” Jaemin asked, voice becoming hoarse. He cleared his throat afterwards, as discreetly as he could, but Yukhei never missed emotions on his friends’ faces and gestures.

“Like he doesn’t want you around,” Yukhei replied. “Which, considering we’re talking about Renjun, is an achievement.”

There was no response from Jaemin, who looked up at where Taeyong was, watching them. Yukhei didn’t understand what the reason was at first, but it took him two seconds to remember Taeyong’s story with Yuta.  He would have never compared them, however, because Jaemin and Jeno had a relationship that was nothing like Taeyong and his old partner. And Renjun wasn’t Yuta.

 

 

 

 

**֍   Chenle. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

Simulations were one of the most unnerving events for soldiers so, even if Chenle had never experienced them, he was as nervous as Jisung. First, because the connection between made Jisung’s nervousness contagious. Second, because he had peeked around the pre-event room  that morning and soldiers were wearing suits and devices which he had never seen before.

That was why he was standing outside Doyoung’s technology station right then, shifting his weight from one leg to another. There were a bunch of soldiers, as young as him, behind him, and Chenle had never seen a queue for the technology station before.

It didn’t help him to relax. The daily life in the army wasn’t anything extraordinary, unless you had graduated and got sent on missions, so a tiny queue was enough to disturb Chenle. It was an important day, an important simulation, and he had barely prepared for it despite all the warnings.

When the doors opened again and Mark stuck his head out, Chenle immediately stepped forward, anxious. Mark let him in, not reacting to his obvious state since he was used to bear with soldiers on the brink of a panic attack.

“This is your first time, right?” Mark asked with a small smile, leading the way. He was wearing a one piece suit himself, which accentuated his thin frame, and Chenle supposed they were teaching some soldiers how to use their new devices. Mark looked back at him and teased, “You took your time to visit us. Still scared of what happened?”

Chenle sighed an exasperated sigh. “Of course not,” he said, and he wasn’t lying. Having an explosive going off on you hurt, needless to say, but apart from the pain, Chenle had handled it pretty well. “I didn’t think it was necessary, but even Jisung had some of your… strange technology.”

They had just entered an almost empty room, a long metallic table that occupied the space from side to side. There were plenty of devices on the table, from heavy boxes that would be impossible to carry to delicate laminated, so thin devices that Chenle would have missed them if they weren’t shining.

Doyoung was crouching down on the floor, checking something on his wrist, but his smile betrayed that he was listening to them.

“You don’t want to disappoint your partner, huh?” Doyoung noted, laughter in his voice. He stood up, wiping his hands on his pants, and exhalated, “Ah, young partners. With time you all end up disposed to throw each other off a virtual cliff during the simulation.”

Chenle blinked in confusion, since he was sure that Jisung would already be capable of doing that if Chenle got on his nerves. But he wasn’t sure that Jisung could waste his competitiveness that way. Somehow Doyoung was right, he reckoned.

“Don’t listen to him. It’s true that some seniors play around during the simulation, but most soldiers take the test very seriously, since they don’t have much real battleground experience,” Mark explained, and Doyoung pulled a face behind his back, almost as to discredit him. That was the only sign of a good relationship he had glimpsed between Doyoung and Mark, though it was obvious they had to be on good terms or otherwise Doyoung would have kicked him out of his station. Mark wouldn’t have been the first or the last to suffer such expulsion. “They say that the way you die in the simulation is the most likely way you will die on the battleground.”

Doyoung sent him a severe glare, and Mark merely stared back at his boss until something seemed to click inside his brain. Then he panicked, mouth open as though he had so many things to say that he couldn’t decide where to start, and dedicated Chenle a sorrowful glance.

“I mean _can_ , not will. The most likely way you can die on the battleground,” he repeated, stuttering.

Chenle hadn’t noticed the choice of words. He had heard far worse, to be honest, and their instructors were way rougher than him – except when it was Yukhei teaching them. Yukhei just allowed them to hurt themselves due to their mistakes, because he thought pain was the fastest way to learn.

“What are you looking for, newbie?” Doyoung asked then, checking out the first row of devices on the table. He didn’t acknowledge Chenle a second time as he added, “We are allowed to give you help on your level, so it’s limited.”

“Anything that can refine my vision,” Chenle answered right away, certain. It had been a problem for a while. “I used these glasses that affected my sense of space, and I’m still recovering, so it would be great to have something to compensate it.”

Doyoung spun on his heels and observed Chenle for a few seconds, eyebrows raised. “Simple. Practical,” he concluded, as if it was a medical report. “I don’t peg you as that type of soldier, but both of us can pretend for a while.”

Chenle didn’t notice Mark’s nervousness at first, but as soon as Doyoung left the room to look for what Chenle needed, Chenle found himself face to face with a wide-eyed Mark.

“Do you know you have to stay alive until…?” Mark began, biting his lower lip. Confused. The question, even unfinished, made Chenle feel embarrassed for how little exigent he had been. _Glasses_. It was ridiculous if he thought about it twice. “You know.”

He didn’t. Mark wasn’t usually this mysterious, or rather, he wasn’t mysterious at all. He was direct, could get a bit sarcastic sometimes, and he would become very teasing towards certain persons – like Jaemin. It wasn’t odd only because this behavior was uncharacteristic of Mark, but also because he glanced at the exit several times, making sure that Doyoung wasn’t back.

He was hiding something, that he had assumed Chenle knew, but Chenle was lost.

“Until what?” he whispered, confused.

“No one has told you yet? Or Jisung?”

“Told us what?”

Mark shook his head and stepped back, “I can’t do it myself. It’s not safe. Someone will tell you when it’s the right time.”

Curiosity crept on Chenle, his neck’s hair bristling. However, like any good soldier, he had learnt to be quiet when he was required to do so. To wait, to be patient. Only people like Yukhei could afford being impulsive; people of Chenle’s level had to be careful and suspect anything could be a test to try their loyalty. A bad move and he would say goodbye to the army, and he had to stay until they escaped after Jungwoo.

He wasn’t sure if it would be a negative future for him.

 

 

 

 

 

  **֍   Yuta. Cyber forces. Unit № 23   ֍**

 

“The answer is no,” Taeyong concluded. “And you can’t change my mind.”

Yuta shouldn’t have been laughing. He should have worn a false seriousness on his face; first, so that Taeyong didn’t feel disrespected, and second, so that Yukhei didn’t feel encouraged to defy him further.

Yukhei’s request was improper, and Taeyong would have had to step over a few protocols if he had given in. Yet Yukhei was hard-headed, lacked the self-consciousness that would have made him back out after the first rejection, and had learned that misbehaving didn’t affect you that much when you were one of the most important soldiers. Yuta agreed that it was a problem, or it would have been if Yukhei had turned out to be mean or cruel, but he was just a boy that liked action and hated obeying people whose skills were weaker than his.   

Still, Yuta had been tremendously shocked when someone had knocked on Taeyong’s door and, upon putting some clothes on, Taeyong had opened just to reveal Yukhei standing in front of him. Yukhei hadn’t commented on Yuta’s state, half naked as he lazily slipped on a sweater, but he had been awful at hiding his moment of coyness.

Yukhei had remained firm under the door’s frame, Yuta laughing on the bed, and Taeyong heavily breathing as he blocked Yukhei’s attacks, well aware of how hard it was going to be to get rid of him.

“You’re not being objective,” Yukhei retorted, not a single trace of fear.

If there was someone who didn’t fear Taeyong, that was Yukhei. It wasn’t smart, but it was a fact. If someone could grow not to respect Taeyong, that would be a man that had lost his partner. And Yukhei was that and more.

“Careful,” Taeyong warned him. Yuta could sense his anger even from behind, the tip of his ears turning red.

“You’re not being objective, captain,” he repeated, drawing an inevitable mischievous smile. He didn’t look at Yuta, though his expression made evident that he knew that his friend was amused at the situation, and kept his gaze on a frustrated Taeyong. “I’m clearly recovered.”

“Not emotionally. Maybe physically, which I doubt as well,” Taeyong observed. It was a stupid observation, actually, because it was impossible to ever recover from a partner’s death. Just like you never recovered from your parents’ death, or your siblings’. You went on living, but that didn’t mean that you had gotten over it, and Taeyong was the best proof of it. “I watched you play with the electromagnetic boots, and it wasn’t good.”

That was a blow to Yukhei’s ego. But Yuta hadn’t expected him to think that he would be one hundred percent active after coming out of a capsule. It took a while until soldiers built muscle again, until they became used to the conditions of the real world.

“Why does it matter? It’s just a simulation,” Yukhei insisted, hiding his fleeting moment of irritation. “I have to pick my training up back at some point.”

Yuta decided not to interrupt them just yet, because Yukhei was controlling his emotions well enough. The kid hadn’t notified him beforehand that he would show up at Taeyong’s private room, but they had discussed how the conversation should be directed, and that Yuta had to be present. If Yukhei took the wrong path, Yuta could lend him a hand, help to convince Taeyong.

Taeyong sneered, “With what partner?”

“None. I don’t need a partner.” Yukhei was fast, almost as if it was an automatic reply, an interiorized thought of his. But he realized the way Taeyong set his eyes on him, disapproving, because individualism was dangerous, and sighed, “What about Donghyuck?”

Silence spread after the proposal, but Yukhei scowled at both of them, like he didn’t understand the reaction. He wasn’t playing around.

Taeyong even glanced back at Yuta for a second, as if Yuta could clarify it for him, and then he went back to Yukhei, confused. “I know you haven’t talked to him since he woke up.”

“Renjun forbid it, it wasn’t my choice,” Yukhei said, firm.

That was a lie, yet Taeyong didn’t know. Yuta did, however, and he couldn’t help but squint at Yukhei, distrustful. Renjun had forbidden visits, in particular Yukhei’s, but only because he had made clear he was going to interrogate Donghyuck. He didn’t have the intention to visit him as a friend, and that was what Taeyong was asking, though he ignored the level of detachment Yukhei had towards him nowadays.

“You can ask him, I guess,” Taeyong admitted, shoulders dropping. He didn’t want to fight anymore, and so he expressed it, “You’re not going to last a single day in the simulation, anyway.”

Despite the deprecating statement, Yukhei looked satisfied. He simply wanted permission, and he had succeeded. Worse yet, he had received permission to drag another soldier into his plan.

“Thank you, captain.”  Although it was a weak way to show his gratitude, Taeyong dismissed him. But Yukhei was grinning now, and Yuta had a bad hunch, his stomach churning at the thought of being affiliated to danger, to have participated in whatever Yukhei was planning behind everyone’s back – it was obvious he hadn’t told his friends everything he had in mind.

As Yukhei backtracked to leave, Yuta bolted out of the bed. Taeyong blinked at him in surprise, “Where are you going?”

Yuta sent him a fake smile, hoping that Taeyong wouldn’t notice his anxiety. Taeyong was numb, anyhow, so he shouldn’t have worried. “I’ll try to talk him out of it,” he lied, squeezing Taeyong’s shoulder. Taeyong caressed his hand before letting him go, and Yuta thought about staying and forgetting about Yukhei.

With his long legs, Yukhei had reached the stairs by the time Yuta left the room. He sprinted through the hall and found Yukhei waiting for him, hands gripping the handrail, as though he had intuited Yuta would run after him.

Yuta didn’t waste his time, “What are you doing? _Donghyuck_?”

Free of guilt, Yukhei shrugged. “We can’t part without the vital information that Donghyuck must have,” he explained. And it was logic, of course, but still a bad idea. Sort of inhumane for someone as human as Yukhei, as impulsive. “So I’m bringing him with us.”

That was what Yuta had feared to hear. Donghyuck was still frail, to the point he barely left the infirmary – just to take walks around the building, and he was always under vigilance. No one had questioned him about the incident yet.

Taeyong had been careless enough to give Yukhei permission to approach him, and Yuta wasn’t certain that Donghyuck would reject the offer. It was a simulation, after all, and they couldn’t hurt each other for real. If he had something negative to reveal, it would be the perfect place.

Yuta couldn’t allow that, despite Taeyong’s approval. He felt the dread invading every cell of his body as Yukhei lift his eyebrows at him. Yuta accused, “That’s kidnapping.”

“Yes, and our whole plan is stealing and deserting,” Yukhei fought back.

He was right. And Yuta didn’t regret joining the team. He didn’t regret helping Yukhei, wanting Jungwoo back, betraying Taeyong this way. But it was scary, nonetheless, and the chances of any of them getting deathly hurt were high. He wasn’t going to be able to forgive himself if they ended up dead. All of them, or just one of them.

Yuta breathed in. He could detect the rebellion in Yukhei’s eyes, as if he had predicted Yuta’s exact words, but he still tried, “Not a good idea. I’m serious. This is getting out of hand and-”

“If you don’t agree, just block our escape. You’re the one who has to enable it, so?” Yukhei cut in, shaking his head. It was risky not to remind Yuta where his loyalty lied, yet Yukhei didn’t push his buttons. He wanted trustable people around, Yuta could sense that, and he preferred cancelling his well traced plan rather than forcing Yuta to do something he didn’t want to. “Actions instead of words.”

Yukhei moved back to the first step of the stairs, carefully reading Yuta’s face. His tone was determined, but his pupils trembled with doubt. Yuta was in charge of letting them go during the simulation, right when everyone was distracted. The simulation was their rabbit hole, and they would disappear fast and anonymously. By the time any captain realized, they would be far away.

They needed Yuta. The final decision, an informatics code, pressing a button: all that was on his hands.

 

 

  **֍   Jeno. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

Donghyuck was standing on the other side of the facility, but there was a glass wall between them.

Jeno didn’t know for how long Donghyuck had been there, since he had been distracted with the preparations.  The place was full of soldiers, coming and leaving, but Jeno had wanted to nose around before the simulation started. Only then he had noted Donghyuck’s presence.

The starting point for all soldiers were circular rooms, which were divided within into smaller rooms by glass. You could observe the soldiers that were going to be nearby when the simulation began. One small cabinet for each pair of soldiers, usually partners, and the floor would open outwards to let them fall.

They were called landing rooms, since the simulation was designed as a whole country underground. Most of the simulation was real: lakes, mountains, cities with skyscrapers, but not the _characters_ inside it. Characters were holograms, though Jeno had often encountered humanoids, and they were meant to act like the normal population. They existed to create realistic situations in which soldiers had to protect them rather than running for their own lives.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jeno asked, setting a hand on the glass.

They were soundproof, so Donghyuck couldn’t listen to him. But he was weird. He was staring at his own feet, bangs sticking in all directions over his eyes, and Jeno was sure that even if he had started a fire in the center of the room, Donghyuck wouldn’t have looked up.

He was alone, as well. There were twenty minutes left for the simulation to begin, so none of the other soldiers had taken their assigned positions yet, but Donghyuck’s partner should have been with him.

Befuddled, Jeno strode out of the landing room. He needed Jaemin, in case he had information that he didn’t, since Yukhei had been very secretive during the last days. As far as Jeno know, Jisung and Chenle hadn’t been updated on the plans until hours before the simulation; Jeno had even walked into Ten explaining to them what their roles were, and he looked annoyed, as if that wasn’t supposed to be his job.

Unluckily, he ran into another soldier as soon as he stepped out. It wasn’t coincidental. The girl blocked the way on purpose, and when he looked up, he met Yerin’s eyes gazing back at him. Jung Yerin was infamous for being the only soldier that had refused to have her head shaved. Scarce times were running for the army, and after making a fuss, they had allowed her to keep her hair intact. They needed her skills, and shaving soldiers’ heads was just a tradition.

It was a simple, silly thing, but her success was a huge proof of power. It was an unique case, and no one else had managed to do the same after her.

“Jeno,” she greeted, a grin plastered on her face. Jeno would have recognized her pigtails anywhere, and would have never missed the amusement in his smile. “Looks like we’ll land on the same zone.”

It was a veiled threat. It was an _I can kick you out of the simulation within one second._ And Jeno loved these games, the teasing before a simulation, to defy soldiers that were better than him as long as he could, but not today. Today he had to stay alive for the sake of the plan, of Jungwoo, and he couldn’t bite into Yerin’s trap. She would chase him down just for the fun of it.

“If you can find me,” Jeno retorted, forcing a smile. “You’re free to _try_ to kill me.”

Though Jeno walked past her, he heard how she clicked her tongue at the reply, disappointed. “Are you insinuating you’ll be a rat?” she screamed at him, drawing the attention of other soldiers. They were used to Yerin and her jokes, however, so no one gave importance to their bickering. “No fun, Jeno!”

Someone booed him, but Jeno didn’t care and just laughed along, pushing people away as he looked for Jaemin. His partner was alone, checking that his black jumpsuit was completely fine, and installing one of the thermal sensors he had received from Doyoung. Jeno didn’t waste time: he grabbed Jaemin by his shoulder and dragged him to a corner, muttering for him to be quiet. Upon noticing his panic, Jaemin didn’t resist, but he looked beyond alarmed.

There was enough noise in the room for them to have privacy, so as soon as they were isolated, Jeno spat, “Donghyuck is inside.”

Judging how long it took Jaemin to open his mouth, he didn’t understand Jeno at first. “What? Donghyuck?” he asked, as if he had heard wrong. He furrowed his eyebrows and glanced around, as to find the culprit, as if someone could have a rational explanation. “He was at the infirmary just yesterday. Yuta checked up on him.”

Jeno was aware of that, which only had made his suspicions worsen. He wouldn’t have been worried if he had seen Donghyuck functioning on his own, without the need of having Renjun holding him by the arm.

“He doesn’t seem to be fine,” Jeno continued. Expressing it out loud was even more terrifying, but he was trained to handle this, and even in front of Jaemin, he didn’t want his horror to drip out. The military world wasn’t soft on its soldiers, whether they were injured, mentally unable to carry a mission or didn’t wish to continue their career. They had duties. “I don’t know why he’s here.”

Jaemin bit his lower lip, as though he wasn’t meant to ask, “Do you think this is Yukhei’s doing?”

The first call, an alarm for them to take their positions, rang across the room. Soldiers moved towards the landing rooms in an orderly way, but not slowly. Jaemin and Jeno couldn’t stay in their corner, murmuring, so Jeno followed the rest of the soldiers, maintaining the distances.

“Of course it is,” Jeno sentenced. He had considered the option as well, but he had deemed it irresponsible given that Donghyuck wasn’t well.  “We’re landing wherever Donghyuck lands, okay?”

As soon as they entered the landing room, Jeno’s eyes scanned the rest of soldiers that would be on their zone at the start. Yerin and her partner, Eunbi, were right next to them. Eunbi waved at them, but she didn’t smile, already in battleground mode. Other soldiers were lower ranks, and Jeno didn’t have to worry about them: just by spotting Yerin, they were going to scurry away like cowards; they weren’t going to fight.

Then his eyes fell on Donghyuck once more. He wasn’t alone this time. Yukhei was next to him, which didn’t catch Jeno off guard. But even through the glass, Jeno could feel the tension between them, an emotional barrier that separated them, and he had the urge to reach out for Donghyuck.

Jaemin looked at Jeno and nodded. They had always protected Donghyuck, and Donghyuck had always protected them. It wasn’t going to change now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waaaaaaaaaaah this update took me so long T.T I'm sorry, I've been very busy with my studies since I'm about to finish. Soon I'll be free to write as much as I want.  
> Some things: yes, they're going to escape through the simulation. I'm actually excited to write about the simulation because it's a survival kind of thing, and I think it will be fun :D  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)  
> 


	6. Mentira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “These robots are made to look like past, deceased soldiers,” he revealed in a whisper. He was hovering over the counter to be able to watch Chenle’s reaction closely, almost like he had planned this, like he had a specific intention with his story. Chenle merely lifted his eyebrows at him, not knowing if Jisung was joking. If he was, it was a joke too dark for his taste. “So that their friends or partners can visit them during the simulation if they want to.”

 

  **֍   Jaemin. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

Jaemin shivered.

The floor opened under him. He tried to maintain his balance as a reflex, to grasp the edge of the floor door and stay in the cabins, but he knew that it was impossible. He hated this, because he was used to be inside the plane with Jeno, and they rarely jumped out. Besides, the simulation blocked the first seconds of the fall, leaving them to float before being sucked by the abyss under them.

Those few seconds, however, allowed them to analyze in which zone they were going to fall, and when Jaemin peeked down, he found bad news. It was mostly ice, the sort of ice that would crumble under them if they weren’t careful. There were some frozen mountains around the terrace, but they weren’t a great option considering most partners would choose to hide there; there wasn’t any town on sight, even looking from the sky, and Jaemin couldn’t see the end of the ice.

By the time the gravity was back, Jaemin knew that they were fucked. They had to hide, but also watch Donghyuck and Yukhei, and most important, they had to land properly. Jaemin twirled in the air, grasping the straps of his parachute, and looked around to locate Jeno. Jeno was doing the same thing, eyes trailed on him and his left hand extended towards him. It was hard to grab Jeno’s hand and pull him closer against the force of the air, but it wasn’t anything new for them.

Jeno entangled his legs around Jaemin’s hips, feet curling around his thighs and hands laced behind his back, and Jaemin felt the pressure of Jeno’s body asphyxiating him. It was the only way to land together, however, because if they opened their parachutes individually, they risked losing control of the parachute and landing on different places. It had been a while since Jaemin last had Jeno so close to him, and that distracted him enough to pull the parachute a few seconds later than he should have. The way Jeno gasped was proof that he had realized. Jaemin felt the shame running through his guts, but then they were falling and falling, and he could only think about protecting Jeno.

Next thing he knew was that Jeno was shaking him, and Jaemin rolled over the floor, unhooking the parachute’s harness.

“Come on,” Jeno propelled him. He dragged Jaemin up by the arms, though he could barely stand up by himself after the fall. “Fast, fast.”

Jaemin scrambled to follow Jeno, who looked very confident in the direction they were taking. They had landed on the valley between two mountains, snow up to their knees, and their parachute was a red spot against the white, like an alarm ringing amidst the silence.

“Did you see anyone else land around here?” Jaemin asked, concerned. He hadn’t managed to follow Donghyuck and Yukhei, mainly because they had disappeared by the time he had tried to find them. Jeno’s lack of complaints indicated that he hadn’t seen them either. “Yerin and Eunbi, they will chase after us.”

Jeno looked back at him for a second, confusion in his gaze. “I know,” he responded, softly, as he tugged harder at Jaemin’s wrist. “If they get us, it’s over. And I know you’d prefer us to stay, but please, don’t do this to me.”

Jaemin couldn’t answer at first. He had promised it, that he would go wherever Jeno went, even if he didn’t agree with the whole plan; he would never betray Jeno that way or, for that matter, any way. It hurt that Jeno could even think of the possibility of Jaemin abandoning him just because he wasn’t disposed to accept Renjun into their lives.

“I will get you out of here, at least,” Jaemin murmured, so weakly that he would have sworn that Jeno didn’t hear him.

Jeno was right. If Yerin and Eunbi killed them in the simulation, they would automatically be sucked out of it. Yuta had warned them that he could disguise their location during the simulation, but not if they got eliminated – the coding for that process was too solid, too untouchable, and it would alert everyone and activate the security system.

As soon as they found a small nook in the mountain, they took shelter there. Jaemin couldn’t help but gasp for air, since running in snow was notably harder than any other surface.

“Which weapons did you save?” Jeno asked, checking his own devices.

“I have a thermal sensor on my sleeve, but it broke in the fall,” Jaemin lamented. He crouched down and drew a tiny pistol, so thin that it would have looked like an ordinary piece of plastic to any citizen. It was an immobilizer, however, that shot tiny amounts of venom that halted muscle reflexes. For the simulation, of course, there was no venom, but in real battles the venom would immediately stop a soldier’s heartbeats, heart unable to contract. “I have two of these.”

Jeno caught the immobilizer in the air with one hand, and gave Jaemin a short, grateful smile. “Thanks. I have food, five semiautomatic nanomissils and three boomerangs,” he counted, colder than usual. It was a response to his nervousness, and Jaemin could deal with it. “We’re short on weapons, but we don’t want to eliminate people and draw excessive attention. We want to go unnoticed.”

 

 

 

  **֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Yukhei wasn’t sure if it had been his worst idea, but it had been necessary.

Since he hadn’t met Donghyuck since he had woken up from the capsule, he had tended not to believe what Renjun had revealed. But after seeing him with his own eyes, he realized that Renjun hadn’t lied to him.

Donghyuck wasn’t the same, for some reason, and it was a fact that became evident just by exchanging a glance with him. Donghyuck’s eyes were void, as if there was no one staring back at Yukhei, like a doll without a soul. Yukhei, who had been determined to interrogate him, had lost all his will as soon as he had encountered whoever this was. Because it wasn’t Donghyuck, at least not the one that he knew.

Since Yukhei had roped him into joining the simulation, Donghyuck hadn’t said a word either. Even to accept his proposal, he had only nodded, but back then Yukhei hadn’t suspected that there was something wrong with him beyond being in recovery.

However, he suspected it now, as they struggled to walk in the snow. Donghyuck could barely hold his semiautomatic rifle in a proper manner, as if he had forgotten his whole training in the span of a few weeks. He obeyed Yukhei’s orders without any complaints, which was odd as well, since Donghyuck had been a bigmouthed kid that couldn’t the resist the temptation of talking back.

Having such an empty companion was dangerous, and Yukhei should have been more alert of his surroundings. Yet his mind was elsewhere, in all the unanswered questions that he had: what had happened to Jungwoo? Who had taken him? What had they done to Donghyuck, and why had he been left behind? Maybe whatever they had tried on them, it had only worked on Jungwoo, and thus they had thrown Donghyuck away like a broken, useless toy.

“Donghyuck, do you remember how to activate this?” Yukhei asked him after they had been in the simulation for a few minutes.

He had stolen an extra pair of graviboots to reach the meeting point - there where Yuta had abilitated a breach for them to exit the simulation - faster, but Donghyuck looked at the boots like they were some sort of strange amulet. Then he shook his head in deny. There was no option for Donghyuck not to be familiar with such technology, yet this person inside him ignored what graviboots were.

A shiver ran down Yukhei’s spine, but his training allowed him to maintain a neutral expression. He couldn’t let this person know that he was panicking, that he was aware that this wasn’t Donghyuck. Perhaps this Donghyuck had assumed that they weren’t friends and he didn’t have to worry about building a façade, since Yukhei was pretty cold towards him.

“That’s fine, I guess,” Yukhei sighed in resignation. “We don’t have time for you to learn and-”

Unable to finish the sentence, Yukhei spun around on his heels as fast as he could. A cracking sound had surged from behind, a clear sound of boots over a surface that wasn’t snow. Otherwise, Yukhei had detected it earlier. Donghyuck, the real one, would have detected it as well. Yet it was too late, because when Yukhei faced what was behind them, there were a couple of barrels aiming at their chests.

Blood ran through Yukhei’s veins so quickly that his heart couldn’t beat at enough speed. Yerin was the one pointing at him, a smile plastered on her face. Both Yerin and Eunbi were walking over a fold-away, metallic walkaway, a perfect machine to survive in the snow. They had been lucky to purchase it, while that meant that Yukhei and

“Down, Wong,” Yerin commanded him. Her smile disappeared for a moment, replaced with a hint of confusion, maybe because of the panic in Yukhei’s face. This was just a simulation for them, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. “You too, Lee. How long do you want this to last?”

Yukhei went onto his knees, which sunk in the snow and buried him up to his hips. Now he couldn’t even react or fight back, since his position was too disadvantageous. Donghyuck followed him, more as an imitating behavior rather than because he understood the situation.

Yerin prepared her hand and lowered the weapon, touching Yukhei’s chest. Yukhei couldn’t let this happen. If they were shot, they would be sucked out of the simulation in a matter of seconds. They wouldn’t be able to escape, and the mission didn’t make any sense if Yukhei wasn’t in it. This was their golden chance, a matter of now or never, and if Yukhei wasn’t there to lead it, it would crumble in shambles.

“Don’t do it!” Yukhei shouted, dissolving into his panic. He should have kept his mouth shut, but in front of the upcoming disaster, he had no choice but take the risk. “Yerin, this isn’t a game. I can’t leave the simulation, I’m here for another reason.”

Yukhei didn’t understand why Yerin bought it, even if it was just for a moment. Perhaps because she could feel his fear, a raw, honest fear, and there wasn’t any playfulness in the way they had reacted.

“Don’t play tricks on me,” she refuted, shifting her weight from one leg to another, uncomfortable.

“I’m not playing tricks on you,” Yukhei insisted. He had planted the seed of doubt, a ray of hope for them, but that wasn’t enough to convince her. Eunbi, next to her partner, looked considerably more reticent. “I’ll tell you about it, but just don’t pull the trigger. I beg you.”

Begging was new for Yukhei, and both of them knew. He didn’t mind the surprise on their faces, however, because he would do anything for his partner. Yerin and Eunbi would have done it for each other, too, but that didn’t mean that they could agree with Yukhei. For most soldiers, the army was ahead of their partner.

Yerin clenched her jaw, “You have ten seconds.”

It wasn’t enough time to convince someone, to put enough reasons on the table for them to understand. So Yukhei opted for a simple, deficient explanation, “There is a breach in the simulation and we formed a party to look for Jungwoo.”

When words flew out of his mouth, he realized that it wasn’t going to be effective. The confession registered as what it was: Yukhei betraying the army. None of the girls were stupid, and even if Yukhei had adorned it, the result would have been the same. Still, it was shocking to recognize the disappointment on Yerin’s face, as if she was watching his hero fall in that exact moment.

“What?” is all she replied at first, too horrified to talk. “You’re deserting?”

They were deserting, no matter how much Yukhei tried to apply alternative names on it. Yet he couldn’t admit before them, because in a trial he would get condemned right away.

“We’re leaving to fetch Jungwoo. Unofficially.”

Instead of focusing his attention on Yukhei, Yerin shifted his gaze towards Donghyuck, looking for a confirmation. “You too?”

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck remained silent, and for once Yukhei was grateful for that. Perhaps an affirmation would have pushed Yerin to take an immediate decision.

Despite his silence, Yerin was too smart not to notice that there was something off with Donghyuck, and she turned to Yukhei with a frown. “What is wrong with him?”

“Shoot them,” Eunbi interrupted them before Yukhei could explain. It would have been a great opportunity, because Donghyuck was the living proof that their enemies had a power that they ignored, and someone had to take the risk to find out. They couldn’t sit down and wait to be destroyed. “We don’t have any other option. He told us, we’re accomplices unless we send them out of the simulation.”

Eunbi was right. She wanted to protect Yerin and herself over anything else, and putting their trust on Yukhei without knowing if he was telling the truth, was a leap of faith.

“But Jungwoo-” Yerin began, confused.

It was a moment of hesitation that costed them their opportunity. Eunbi was the first one to fall forward with a gasp, whether it was of surprise or pain, Yukhei couldn’t tell. And right then, Yerin could have pulled the trigger out of panic, thinking that Yukhei and Donghyuck were attacking them somehow. Yet Eunbi’s groan of pain was too realistic for her not to care for her partner, and that second in which he checked on Eunbi was enough for her to receive the second attack.

Their suits froze, disabling all their movements, and they couldn’t stand or even hold their weapons. Yukhei could recognize the symptoms of an immobilizer, and when Eunbi and Yerin fell face forward, he spot the darts on their backs; he had never been so happy that their suits were advanced enough to recreate the consequences of an attack, otherwise they would have shot them.

“Get up,” Yukhei told Donghyuck, struggling to do so himself. He winded up extending an arm to lift Donghyuck as well. “Who shot them?”

Yukhei was ready to escape, since they couldn’t be sure that the soldiers wouldn’t attack them as well. Yerin and Eunbi had been at clear sight, while they were stuck in the snow, so it could have been just an issue of perspective. They could be next, so Yukhei stole the rifles from Eunbi and Yerin and inspected the zone, pupils shaking out of nervousness.

Donghyuck made a deep noise in the back of his throat, and when Yukhei glanced at him, he discovered that Donghyuck had raised his index finger and was pointing at something. At someone, to be specific: two masculine figures that were still far away, climbing down the nearest mountain. Despite the distance, there was no doubt that they were Jeno and Jaemin, since Yukhei distinguished the way they walked.

“Let’s move towards them,” Yukhei suggested, though it was hopeless to expect an answer. “They don’t seem to have mortal weapons.”

Donghyuck nodded, which was the only positive response Yukhei could get, and they nearly ran towards Jaemin and Jeno. It was shocking to witness how the first thing they did was to inspect Donghyuck, his pupils, his body, looking for any sort of harm he may have presented. Yukhei didn’t understand it: the simulation prevented them from hurting, at least with their surroundings, so his friends expected to find  wounds made by another person.

“How did you find us?” Yukhei asked them, worried that they were a red flag in the middle of the snow.

Jaemin lifted his arm to show him the thermal sensor in his sleeve, but the screen was broken. “It’s working from time to time. It’s pretty useless in general, though, we found you by luck.”

That made sense. Yukhei just hoped that no one else in their small group had another thermal sensor, yet it was a very smart hardware to carry.

Jeno twirled around, finally liberating Donghyuck from his thorough inspection. “What do we do with Yerin and Eunbi?”

Too concerned about being discreet, Yukhei had almost forgotten their biggest problem in that moment. They could leave the girls there, out in the cold, since the simulation wouldn’t let them freeze to death, but it was a risk that could mean the destruction of their plans. In a desperate attempt not to get shot, Yukhei had taken a wrong decisions. Desperate times requires desperate measures, but still they had to solve it now.

Yukhei sighed, running a hand through his hair, and confessed, “I think we have to bring them with us.”

Both Jaemin and Jeno gazed at him as though he had gone mad; he had, in some way, but he was using his brain for this.

“What? Why?” Jeno questioned, furrowing his eyebrows. The realization poured through him just a second later, for a simple glance at Yukhei’s guilty eyes was enough to disclose his mistake. “You told them about our plan.”

Horror crossed Jaemin’s semblance when Yukhei was unable to deny it. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, as though he had acquired an immediate headache, and without looking at them, then he reasoned, “As soon as the immobilizer releases them, they will snitch on us. We need that time of margin before we start getting chased.”

In all the years they had spent together, it was the first time for Yukhei to see Jeno glaring at his partner. It wasn’t disappointment, but it was similar to it - the army forced them to do some unethical things sometimes, but this was double unethical, because it was both against their principles and the army.

Jeno grumbled, “So we drag them over the snow, shot them again when the effect starts disappearing, and make them join a mission that they don’t want to be part of?”

“You make it sound so terrible,” Yukhei complained.

“This is kidnapping,” Jeno retorted, indignant. Perhaps not because of the idea, but because Yukhei didn’t look like he would regret it, not now or never. “Are you growing to enjoy kidnapping people, Yukhei?”

“You could say so,” Yukhei played along, not having the strength to fight. He didn’t want to fight. He needed his friends united for a reason, even if he sounded illogical and dangerous. He shrugged. “We have no option. Plus, they have a platform, we don’t have to drag them over the snow.”

Jaemin shook his head up and down, conforming, but Jeno’s nostrils were flaring, like he hated the two of them for wanting to involve more people. That had always been the problem with Jeno: he had a hard time obeying orders if they went against his beliefs. Yukhei wasn’t his boss, though he belonged to a superior unit, and deep inside he knew that he wasn’t compelled to follow.

“You’re carrying them all by yourselves,” Jeno sentenced in the end. He walked past the three of them, but he grabbed Donghyuck’s arm to keep him by his side. “I’ll lead the way.”

 

 

 

  **֍   Chenle. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

Chenle had never seen a human robot before.

His first mistake had been confessing that out loud while they were passing by a bar. They were supposed to reach that specific town to meet up with the rest of the boys, but their destiny was the last house that bordered with the forest, not the bar two streets away.

The streets of the town were empty, but all houses resembled western towns; the designers probably had aimed for that, though the town was the reverse of an oasis: a western town, a piece of desert surrounded by a dense forest.

Upon the confession, Jisung had gasped as though Chenle had admitted a crime, and he had seen himself being pulled into the nearest bad. Chenle hadn’t expected the atmosphere he had found there.

Unlike the streets, the bar was brimming with people. Not people. Robots that looked like people, every detail of their faces modified until perfect realism. Chenle had heard about robots before, but he knew that most of the places that held them only had robots that slightly resembled people, not ones that could easily deceive you into thinking they were real humans.

It fucked up with people’s minds, so the army was reticent to create a considerable amount of places like this one.

Jisung didn’t even blink at the robots when they entered the bar. In general, robots didn’t interact with humans unless they were approached first, but they interacted among themselves. So Jisung took the liberty of jumping over the bar counter, landing next to the bartender - who didn’t even glance at him - and grabbed one of the bottles that were brand new.

Chenle crept up to the counter carefully, observing every robot that he crossed paths with, but none of them paid him any attention. It was as though they didn’t exist for them. The bartender, a girl with sharp eyes and dyed blond hair, did look at him when he sat by the counter, but she didn’t say a word. Chenle had to address her first if he wanted to begin a conversation, yet the mere thought of talking to this creature - that looked alive but wasn’t - was too terrifying for him.

“Leave that where it was,” Chenle scolded him, although Jisung was already grasping clean glasses to serve them alcohol. “You can’t drink.”

“It’s here, isn’t it? We can take it,” Jisung refused, a big smile on his lips. He looked like a kid stealing alcohol from his parents for the first time. “Don’t look at me like that, dad. You’re deserting but you’re worried over being drunk during your duties?”

That was a strong point, and even if Chenle managed to come up with a good reason to stop Jisung, his partner would still ignore him. He even poured Chenle a drink, which he didn’t hesitate to push away, and Jisung rolled his eyes at him.

“You’re boring,” he protested.

“I’m worried over you being drunk, not me,” Chenle explained. “You have enough problems as it is, sober.”

Far from offended, Jisung laughed at it, aware that it was true. To begin with, thinking about getting drunk in the middle of a mission that would ruin their lives if it went wrong was a clear sign of his instability. But that’s why they were partners. Chenle wasn’t very stable himself, but somehow their chaotic ways ended up compensating each other; still, he was sure that Jisung was much worse than him.

Jisung swallowed half of the drink in one go, staring at him as to challenge him, and only stopped because Chenle slapped his arm.

Then he slanted his head towards the bartender, who was serving beer to another robot - an odd sight, in Chenle’s opinion, but simulations had to be genuine - and asked, “Do you know what people say?”

Exasperated, Chenle enabled him, “Surprise me.”

An excited shine flamed in Jisung’s eyes, perhaps because he was allowed to tell whatever story he had been dying to tell, or perhaps because this was the most similar thing to interest that he would get from Chenle.

“These robots are made to look like past, deceased soldiers,” he revealed in a whisper. He was hovering over the counter to be able to watch Chenle’s reaction closely, almost like he had planned this, like he had a specific intention with his story. Chenle merely lifted his eyebrows at him, not knowing if Jisung was joking. If he was, it was a joke too dark for his taste. “So that their friends or partners can visit them during the simulation if they want to.”

The only reason Chenle realized that it wasn’t a joke was the lack of a smile on Jisung’s face. Whether it was true or just a rumor, Jisung wasn’t lying to him. Chenle reckoned that they could only confirm it if they had lost someone, and he was certain that soldiers who visited this place to find their loved ones wouldn’t tell their experience later. The atmosphere alone bothered Chenle, and he couldn’t imagine sharing such an intimate, but fake moment, such a big sign of weakness and unhealed pain.

“That’s horrible,” was everything that left his lips.

“Did you imagine yourself visiting me here?” Jisung teased him in an attempt to lift the mood. He sent a sonorous flying kiss across the counter, and Chenle would have had the decency to blush if they weren’t in such a weird place. “I promise I will give you love even if I’m a robot.”

It was such a dark joke that Chenle didn’t bother to reproach it. Jisung was out of his mind, which wasn’t new, and there was no use in reminding him to be a bit more sensitive. If not towards everyone else, at least towards his partner. Chenle could sense his sudden bad mood through the connection, a consequence of not receiving a positive reaction.

Jisung drank the other half of the drink and then, setting the glass on the table with a loud noise, he decided, “We should leave. I don’t think any of the guys have arrived yet, but it’s good to secure the zone before they do.”

He was right, but his change of mind drove Chenle to wonder if he was repressing how uncomfortable this place made him. The connection already told him that Jisung was tense, which Chenle had assumed a natural cause of their plan; he doubted that was the reason after all.

Instead of waiting for him, Jisung jumped over the counter and left, not even dedicating a glance to the other robots. Before following him, Chenle took a few seconds for himself, to inspect his surroundings. He scanned the bartender from head to toe, memorized every detail of her face as well as he could, and then realized how much of a bad idea this was.

But he still asked, “Miss, what’s your name?”

The girl looked much younger when she turned to him. Her eyes lighted up, and Chenle wasn’t sure if it was her software or the angle of light, but all of a sudden she didn’t seem unreal anymore. She would have passed as a human, because the mere interaction with an actual human had erased the impersonality in her being.

“My name is Naeun, kid,” she answered, and then stared at Chenle meticulously, as though she hadn’t seen him enter. “You look very young to be at a bar, don’t you?”

Chenle shot her his most convincing smile, though it felt weird to smile at someone that didn’t understand the real meaning of the gesture. “Indeed. Have a nice a morning, Naeun.”

 

 

 

  **֍   Kun. Space forces. Unit № 6  ֍**

Kun was the last to arrive.

Unlike the rest of the party, he had been assigned to a partner that had nothing to do with the mission. And it would have been an easy task if the partner hadn’t been Park Sooyoung. She was too smart for her own good, or for Kun’s good, for that matter. She had suspected of him the exact moment he suggested that they should take a route that wasn’t ideal for combat.

She had wanted to go towards the closest city, while Kun insisted that they had to penetrate deep into the forest. His only reason was that the meeting point was beyond the forest, but he didn’t have any other excuse to justify it. Sooyoung could have assumed that he was a fool and that would have worked in his favor; instead of that, Sooyoung had looked at him like she could crack his head open and discover all what he was thinking.

So Kun had sighed, resigning, and had shot her right in her chest. The surprise had lasted for a single second on her face before the simulation had sucked her out of the map, vacuuming her, but Kun made a mental note to apologize to her if they ever crossed paths again. He doubted that they would go back to the military, yet one could never know.

As Kun set foot in the town, leaving the forest behind, he prayed that the rebellion against his own partner hadn’t shone a light on him. There should have been still too many soldiers in the simulation for Kun to get watched, and that was his greatest hope, since otherwise they would find a group of soldiers reuniting in a house instead of fighting each other.

Kun stood in front of the chosen house, knocked, and recited the password, “The most important connection is the connection with my brothers.”

There was someone else behind the door, waiting, because it opened even before he finished pronouncing the last word, and a hand hauled him inside. The house was as small as it looked from the outside, but it was accentuated by the six boys cramming inside. There were two girls lying on the floor as well, and Ten was inspecting the face of one of them, as though he wanted to make sure that they couldn’t move.

“What the fuck did you do?” Kun gasped out loud when he saw them, horrified.

“Things never go according to our plans,” Jeno explained. The tone he used, the stare he gave him, indicated that they had experienced that discussion before Kun showed up. Knowing Youngho, it must have been hard to convince him to pull through with _this_ , whatever that was. “You’re late.”

“I am. Things never go according to our plans,” Kun repeated back at him, and Jeno nodded at the reply, acknowledging his excuse.

His friends seemed to be exhausted, and the road ahead would just become rougher. They didn’t imagine it, but Kun was there for that - traveling to space was indeed exhausting, both physically and mentally, and he knew all the ways they could overcome the hardships.

Jisung jumped out from the couch he was sitting on, Chenle’s head resting on his thighs. Chenle was almost thrown off along, but Jisung didn’t spare him a single glance, as though he had done it on purpose just for fun. Chenle looked annoyed, which meant that it wasn’t the first or last time Jisung did that.

“Less talking and more escaping through breaches,” he rushed them, clapping his hands together. “Mark told Jaemin that we will feel the same as if we were being sucked out of the simulation, so don’t panic. Renjun is waiting for us in the plane, and Yuta will hide our position in the radars at the beginning, but he can’t assure us more than half a day.”

Kun hummed, aware that the explanation was directed only at him. Everyone else was ready. “So where is the breach?”

Jisung had been waiting for that question, because he dedicated him a triumphant smirk and then kicked the portion of floor in front of him. The wood under him collapsed. Collapsed, not _broke,_ displaying a black hole in the middle of the house. It wasn’t a hole, per se, because Kun could see the holographic waves that indicated that the simulation was malfunctioning there where there should be ground.

“Who wants to go first?” Jisung asked, gazing around the room with theatrics.

No one was the least surprised when Chenle stood up, serious, and announced, “Me.”

Jisung’s face changed from joy to concern in a split second. Kun would have laughed, because it was obvious that Jisung didn’t want his partner to go first, but he deserved the punishment for fooling around during a mission.

Laughing nervously, he set a hand on Chenle’s chest and said, “Wait, I wasn’t including y-”.

That gesture wasn’t enough to stop Chenle, who batted his hand away and dipped down the breach without considering Jisung’s protests. On the other hand, Jisung became pale as the dead as he saw Chenle disappear into the darkness.

“Damn crazy bastard,” Jisung grumbled, desperate.

Then he jumped in right after.

 

 

 

   **֍   Jeno. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

The breach led them to a forest clearing that Jeno was familiar with.

Not because he had to, but because the place was situated right in the limits of the military base. Although it wasn’t inside the base, it was close enough for him to frequent the place without getting scolded. During his trainee days, he used to spend a great amount of time there just to have some privacy. It had been when he had trouble to accept everything that a connection implied, when he had to shape himself to remember that he would never be alone inside his head again - that Jaemin would always be there, for the better and for the worse.

The clearing was invaded by a plane this time, which felt odd, but this whole mission felt that way to Jeno. He looked up after landing and took the hand that offered him help - Jaemin’s - but his legs trembled anyway.

“Get in, quick,” Yukhei rushed them. He was carrying Yerin on his shoulder, legs on his chest and face on his back, but he didn’t seem to have any trouble with her dead weight. “Do your thing.”

Jeno obeyed, and so did Jaemin. They had been the last ones to cross the breach, and all the guys inside the plane were changing clothes, getting rid of their simulation suits to destroy them and avoid that the army could find them, since suits were equipped with tracking systems.

That wasn’t Jeno’s priority, though, because they had to take off as fast as possible. Along Jaemin, he was the only pilot in the party, and they would have to schedule shifts not to be exhausted. He didn’t know how this would have worked without Jaemin.

But as soon as Yukhei entered the plane and secured the main door, after leaving Yerin on the floor, the plane moved. Maybe it should have been difficult to notice at first, but there wasn’t anything that Jeno knew better than the feeling of a plane defying gravity.

That couldn’t be _happening_. It must be his imagination, the tension creating hallucinations, but when he spun to face Jaemin, his partner was staring back at him with the same bewilderment on his face. Even though most of the boys hadn’t noticed, Jeno knew that there was no way Yukhei wouldn’t have, so Jeno strode up to him and spat, “Who is piloting?”

For a few seconds, Yukhei merely gazed at him, as though they didn’t speak the same language. “What?”

Impatient, Jeno insisted, “The plane. Who is piloting the plane?”

The silence that extended in the atmosphere wasn’t a good signal. Yukhei still looked confused, but not worried; he didn’t think that it was strange that the plane was taking off, even if Jeno couldn’t remember that they had another pilot among them. What appeared on Yukhei’s face was, instead, mistrust.

“Renjun. What sort of question is this?” Yukhei asked him. A flash of realization invaded his gaze, and then he whispered, “You don’t know who Renjun is?”

Jeno felt the blood draw away from his face. Renjun was piloting? Renjun was a pilot? They had never talked about it. Renjun avoided mentioning his past, and Jeno had dug enough just to discover that Renjun was a nurse because something had happened to one of his brothers - it was a sensitive topic, so Jeno never pushed Renjun out of his comfort zone, giving him space, time, to trust him.

But Yukhei knew about his past. And that stung hard and bad, possessiveness blinding all his logic. Everyone had stopped undressing to look at him, and a quick inspection told Jeno that his friends ignored that information about Renjun as well. Yet Jeno should have known, he had the right to know.

“He used to be a soldier from the west,” Yukhei explained. He shook his head in disapproval, a disapproval directed straight to Jeno, like it was his fault, like he was irresponsible for being in a relationship with someone he didn’t fully know. “He’s a renegade, Jeno. Switched bands, then became a nurse. You three will be taking turns to fly this monster.”

Jeno heard Renjun’s voice in his head, his sweet, teasing _When have I ever been dishonest?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo helloooo. I'm finally free :3  
> I think this is the longest chapter so far??? Also it's my favorite chapter so far as well, since it opens a few plot lines and we discover that Renjun isn't who Jeno thought that he was ;) and I hope you guys liked it!! The "action" starts now and soon there will be new nct members that haven't appeared yet.  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [Curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)!


	7. King and Lionheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renjun hadn’t kept his past a secret from Yukhei, after all, but Renjun had made sure the others wouldn’t even suspect about his upbringing. Yukhei couldn’t decide how to feel about that, because it was Renjun and him, him and Renjun, and no one else.

**֍   Renjun. Specialized Nursing: systematical recovery and organ restoration  ֍**

 

In the pilot’s cabin, the silence was absolute.

Renjun hadn’t driven a plane in years, and even though his skills were unblemished, his confidence wasn’t. If he had had to pilot a plane under other circumstances, he would have grasped the wheel with a different attitude, yet Renjun didn’t have any other option.

His mind was elsewhere, because Renjun was far from stupid: he knew that the moment Jeno and Jaemin realized that they were flying and they weren’t the ones controlling the plane, questions would be asked. Secrets would be revealed. And he wasn’t ready for that.

His head was trapped between two worlds, but Renjun had been conscious of what he was accepting when he decided to help Yukhei. It was unavoidable that piloting brought him memories of the past, and those memories were entangling with his current problems, with Jeno’s voice slipping through the cracks of his thoughts. Maintaining his focus was vital, so he gripped the remains of his awareness and checked the main panel to make sure that they weren’t being followed. That they hadn’t been found right after taking off.

Renjun’s consolation was that, whatever that was taking place in the rest of the plane, was a mystery for him. But sooner or later he would have to face reality, since he was obligated to take turns with Jaemin and Jeno. A part of him wished, begged for Jeno’s understanding, even if the chances were so low that it was pure delusion. Renjun had been a soldier too, so he was familiar with the way soldiers’ brains worked; he knew how they could step on love, friendships, blood relationships, and Renjun both feared and refused to believe that Jeno would do that to them.

Renjun had betrayed him first. Jeno had trusted him with his whole soul, and if Jeno had been able to, he would have created a partner connection with Renjun just so that they could be closer to each other. Renjun had hold onto his secrets like a starving dog holds onto food, and they were secrets too big to keep them private and expect them not to ruin his relationship with Jeno. Renjun had done this to himself and still, a part of him whispered that Jeno wouldn’t have loved him if he had known the truth. Jeno wouldn’t have even bothered to talk to him.

Hands shaking, Renjun inhaled and pressed the alarm that was under the armrest. His shift wasn’t over, but the moment he tried to avoid thoughts about Jeno, images of his past slipped into his mind. Even if his body still responded to his orders, Renjun was aware that soon he would be paralyzed and the plane would be down at any mishap.

The cabin’s door slid to the side, and a rushed breath was the first sound that reached Renjun’s ears. By the time Renjun stood up, he couldn’t feel his legs properly anymore, and to add to the physical pain, he met eyes with Jaemin across the cabin. Renjun didn’t have to ask if he was the next in line, because Jaemin would have never voluntarily shared space with him otherwise.

However, a single glance at Renjun’s semblance revealed more than Renjun would have liked to, and Jaemin’s face twisted from confusion to concern.

“What’s wrong?” Jaemin asked, approaching him with just two steps. A second later he was holding Renjun by the waist like an automatic reflex, afraid that he couldn’t stand on his own. “Are you okay?”

Renjun couldn’t breathe, but now for another different reason. His eyelashes fluttered close, and his mind focused on Jaemin’s touch: that was the only connection he had with the real world, with something that wasn’t the inside of his head. They had never touched each other before. They hadn’t even talked to each other. And Renjun was certain that Jaemin was yet to realize what he was doing, or he would have released Renjun as soon as his lands had landed on him.

When Renjun opened his eyes again, he detected exactly that in Jaemin’s face. His fingers vacillated over Renjun’s waist, the movement of his chest stopped altogether. Yet the fright was still present in Jaemin’s eyes, and that was the only emotion preventing him from freeing Renjun.

Renjun made the both of them a favor and lied, “I’m fine.”

Losing Jaemin’s grip was a risky decision, and Renjun made his best to be discreet as he supported himself on the armrest. His idea worked just because Jaemin was already spinning to substitute him on the chair. Renjun had no option but to pull himself up, pretend that he didn’t _need_ Jaemin to hold him for at least a few more seconds.

Uncomfortable, Jaemin cleared his throat and avoiding Renjun’s eyes, he assured, “I can take it. Go rest.”

Following his advice, Renjun left the cabin before Jaemin could turn around and catch him holding onto the walls not to fall. Yet once the door slid open, the pressure around his head disappeared. Renjun squatted, however, as he breathed deeply for air in the middle of the pre-cabin room, a place that was only an excuse to have double doors before reaching the cabin – to protect the pilot.

Renjun didn’t have enough time to recover though, because someone unlocked the other door and he hurried up to stand on his feet. Although it was impossible to hide that he felt sick, Renjun could _try_.

It was Jeno. And the last person that Renjun was expecting was him. On the contrary, Jeno’s coldness made obvious that he was ready to confront him. Or at least, to look at him without crumbling down, which Renjun was unable to say about himself. Anyone would have bought Jeno’s façade, but not Renjun. For him Jeno wore every one of his feelings on his face: the pain, the hatred, the disappointment.

Renjun reacted without thinking twice and attempted to take Jeno’s hand in his, propelled by the urge to stop Jeno from gazing at him that way. It was a terrible idea, but it was too late for Renjun to withdraw.

Jeno did take his hand, but a millisecond later he shoved it away from him, so hard that Renjun trailed after the movement and tripped back, hitting himself with the wall. Renjun gasped in surprise, and for a moment he was more worried about not falling down than about Jeno.

“Don’t touch me,” Jeno said between gritted teeth. He was staring at the floor, not at Renjun, as though he couldn’t stand the simple sight of him. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The shock muted any reply Renjun could come up with. The most violent action Jeno had ever performed on him was pushing him against a bed to kiss him, and in all honesty, Renjun realized that he hadn’t seen Jeno truly angry before. Frustrated and scared, maybe. But not angry.

“Jeno,” Renjun called him, wary. His voice came out so weak that he didn’t recognize it, but if he let go of Jeno in this state, there was a possibility that Jeno assumed that Renjun didn’t care about him. “You need to listen.”

A bitter smile flashed across Jeno’s lips, but it faded away as soon as he spoke. “Listen?” he repeated, fixing Renjun in his place with a glare. “No, I need to help my partner.”

Renjun knew what Jeno meant. It was so cruel that Renjun didn’t understand it at first, because Renjun had confessed that fear to Jeno before, and Jeno had cradled him in his arms, telling him that love wasn’t about a simple connection. It was a lie, and both of them had been aware of that back then, but they had decided to lie to themselves. Jeno was confirming that it had been indeed a lie.

When Jeno activated the cabin’s door, Renjun spotted Jaemin sitting on his chair, frozen. Even from behind, the tension on Jaemin’s shoulders and back was manifest, and Renjun remembered that despite not being able to hear their conversation, Jaemin was _feeling_ it.

Jeno was going to help his partner, because his partner was the only one that mattered. Not Renjun.

 

 

 

 

**֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Yukhei was mad, but he was unable to express it out loud.

Even when Jeno and Jaemin left, he didn’t have the guts to respond to Youngho’s questioning glances. He paced around the main room of the plane, giving orders, checking that every system of the plane was in order. Anything but to think about Renjun.

The worst part of the situation was that Yukhei didn’t know why he was so angry at Renjun. Renjun hadn’t kept his past a secret from Yukhei, after all, but Renjun had made sure the others wouldn’t even suspect about his upbringing. Yukhei couldn’t decide how to feel about that, because it was Renjun and him, him and Renjun, and no one else.

Yukhei should have expected that from a boy that had been raised in a different military. Their enemies didn’t have the same concept of unity, they didn’t care about group work, and so Renjun had thought that it was completely fine to hide himself from his own _boyfriend_. Yukhei’s madness spiked up every time he remembered Jeno’s expression when he had revealed that Renjun was a renegade. Jeno would never say it out loud, but it was obvious that he blamed Yukhei, as though Yukhei had interfered between them on purpose. Yukhei was mad at himself for not managing the party like he should have done it; to begin with, shoving Renjun and Jaemin into the same plane of existence wasn’t smart. He was mad at Renjun, because he ignored the reason why he had trusted Yukhei and _only_ Yukhei.

“You should sit down,” Youngho advised him, grasping his shoulder with excessive strength. Yukhei was in the middle of checking that the motor sounded right for the tenth time today, and when Youngho touched him, he considered shaking him off. Upon noticing his hesitation, Youngho insisted, “I mean it.”

Yukhei surrendered with a sigh, and spun on his heels just to find Ten’s concerned gaze on him. Everyone in the room was looking at him in the same way; particularly, Yukhei could distinguish the fear fusing with the worry in Jisung’s eyes. That was the seed of doubt, of wondering if they had renounced to their whole lives to follow a boy that had lost his mind. Perhaps they had, but Yukhei still had enough heart to pretend that they hadn’t.

“Fine,” Yukhei agreed. His eyes fell on Yerin and Eunbi, who were lying in the middle of the room. Their paralysis wasn’t as evident as before, for Yerin could move her eyes and eyelids now, and once the poison disappeared, they would be a problem. “Can you carry them to the rooms?”

Even though the order wasn’t directed at anyone, Chenle nudged Jisung and both of them left their seats. That gave Yukhei time to scan his friends once more, an excuse not to comply with Youngho’s request right away. Among them, Kun was the only one that was calm. Space soldiers were made of a different material, and Yukhei had brought him for that; Kun never ran out of patience, he never stopped using his brain even in the most chaotic situations, and most important, he didn’t have a partner.

Before Yukhei could see Kun as an example and simmer down, a hit could be heard from the other side of the room, exactly where Jeno and Jaemin had disappeared a few minutes earlier.

Before he could show up, Yukhei already knew that it was Renjun. But it wasn’t _Renjun_ , the angelic boy that treated soldiers and cured them who appeared. It was his other side, the soldier Renjun, who barged into the room, fury in his eyes and so much tension that he looked bigger than ever. Ready to fight, one could say. Out of the corner of his eyes, Yukhei caught the rest of his friends jolting out of their seats, alarmed.

The first thing that Renjun did was to sweep away all the objects that were in the nearest table; all of them to the ground, crashing, pieces of crystal flying over the floor. Ten was the first one to react, the one who approached Renjun and held his arm in place before he could destroy anything else, but Renjun didn’t spare him a single glance. His gaze was on Yukhei.

“You told him?” Renjun screamed.

“You didn’t tell him?” Yukhei retorted, and even though he didn’t intend to, he found himself raising his voice as well. His anger had changed now that he was staring right into Renjun’s eyes. The pain that he discovered there worsened his mood for some reason, and he couldn’t stop himself from saying what he really thought, though he would have never said in other circumstances. “Did you lose your mind? You could shove your tongue into his mouth but you couldn’t tell him about your past?”

Once the bomb had been dropped, the shock extended all over the room in a matter of seconds. Contrary to what anyone would expect, Renjun was the fastest to recover from the verbal attack, but Yukhei saw Youngho staring at them with his mouth open.

“That wasn’t for you to tell!” Renjun reproached at Yukhei, stepping forward. Ten wasn’t able to hold him back this time, which told a lot about Renjun’s strength. Renjun didn’t seem disposed to hurt Yukhei anyway, but he came so close that he had to crack his neck to look up at Yukhei. “And you know it!”

Yukhei shook his head in disbelief. Not because he was unable to admit that he should have kept his mouth shut, but because Renjun didn’t see the fault in his decision. “You should have told him before he could find it out by himself. What was your deal, anyway? Were you happy with him knowing that he was in love because of a lie?”

Renjun’s expression hardened, but the anger dissipated at Yukhei’s words. It was a low kick, yet Yukhei considered that Renjun needed to hear it. Renjun’s response wasn’t immediate, and when it finally arrived, he managed to freeze every boy in the room.

“That’s not who I am. I’m not the people I killed.”

There was a reason why Kun, Ten and Youngho exchanged glances, and then silently agreed to leave them alone. Renjun’s words rebelled against everything they had been taught: the merit, the pride, their value as soldiers were measured in the amount of fights they had won, hence in the amount of people they had killed.

Renjun’s eyes followed the three seniors as they left, yet Yukhei didn’t turn around to tell them that they could stay. They couldn’t. They needed privacy.

Yukhei was aware of what he had spat at Renjun, and he regretted it. Somehow it was true that Yukhei and the rest of them were the people who they had murdered, but Renjun wasn’t. Renjun was running away from that, and becoming a nurse was helping him to compensate one life for another. That alone differentiated him from Yukhei.

Then they were alone, and Yukhei said what he would have never said in front of anyone else, “I know that. We all know that. That’s why you should have trusted Jeno.”

Even though it was visible that such statement placated Renjun, his expression told Yukhei that he disagreed with him. Maybe he believed that Jeno wouldn’t have loved him if he knew the truth, that Jeno wouldn’t have even laid his eyes on him.

Yukhei felt his mouth dry all of a sudden, and the question broke out of his mouth naturally, “Why did you trust me?”

Renjun closed his eyes, resigned, and later dedicated Yukhei his saddest smile, “I thought you would understand.”

“Why? Because I killed more people than all of them together?” Yukhei turned around, irritated at himself. He was losing his patience, his capacity of reasoning, therefore his leadership, and he knew why. He _needed_ Jungwoo, otherwise he felt unbalanced, all the weight of his personality dragging him towards an inefficient, chaotic side. “I do understand.”

The echo of Renjun’s steps could be heard as he approached Yukhei. Then his hand rose to Yukhei’s shoulder, and Yukhei didn’t move, because he knew that despite being mean to Renjun, Renjun still had the gift of consoling him.

“I was trying to protect Jeno,” Renjun explained then, lowering his tone as though he could scare Yukhei away otherwise. Yukhei was glad that he wasn’t facing Renjun when he continued, “You’re over every rule, you know? But Jeno isn’t. He feels a duty towards the army and I would have put him in a dilemma. What if he didn’t betray me but I turned out to be a spy? What if he snitched on me and I turned out to be good? He would have lost in any case.”

Yukhei closed his eyes, trying to order his thoughts. Renjun was smart, but not telling Jeno was still manipulative. Renjun could camouflage himself in society without any problem, and that was how he had escaped from an army, entered a new country, and built a whole new identity. Yukhei wished that Renjun hadn’t used his new identity on Jeno.

Repressing that thought, Yukhei decided to give a try to what he had really wanted to know for a long time.

When he talked again, he could feel a weight lifting off his back. “Renjun, how did you know I wouldn’t betray you?”

The small laugh that Renjun let out was unmistakable, as though the answer to that was too obvious and Yukhei shouldn’t be asking.

“You have killed so many people,” Renjun started, but there was a hint of compassion in his tone, something that prevented Yukhei from feeling horrible about it. “That your conscience wouldn’t let you risk killing another innocent person. I know because mine wouldn’t let me either.”

 

 

 

  **֍   Mark. Technologist apprentice. Base CK2Y3   ֍**

 

The alarm went off past midnight.

It caught Mark awake, his hand on the doorknob, his fingers trembling. The whole building was in darkness, and it was the perfect moment for him to sneak out from his bedroom. He merely had to dodge a few sentinels to reach the technology base, and it wouldn’t be that hard: he had memorized their schedules, their spots, the cadence with which they inspected the right side of the half, and the cadence with which they inspected the left side.

Mark wasn’t a soldier, but he worked for the army anyhow, so his skills were on pair with soldiers’ skills. One didn’t qualify just by having knowledge and reading books, and Mark dared to affirm that his tests were even harder than battleground soldiers’ tests. In the end, soldiers heavily relied on technology, and their inventions were state secrets.

Besides, every head technologist chose which apprentices to take under their wing, so even if they passed all tests, their incorporation wasn’t assured. Doyoung had chosen Mark, and that was an extra honor to his curriculum because while most head technologists had around fifteen and thirty apprentices, Doyoung had none. Mark had become the first one in five years, after the last apprentice died in an aquatic accident while Doyoung and him tried to validate an electric conductor.

Mark loved Doyoung, but choosing Mark had been a wrong calculation of his. Choosing only one apprentice, in general, had been a bad idea. Mark felt lonely, a loneliness that working day and night couldn’t fill, and that was accentuated by dozens of partners rubbing on his face how special their relationships were.

Jaemin had been his first friend. Then Jeno. Then Donghyuck. And Mark understood the danger of it, because lonely people clung to company in desperate ways, yet he hadn’t stopped himself. He embraced his issues, because the sensation of belonging to something, to someone, was bigger than his guilt. When he looked into Jaemin’s eyes and Jaemin looked back at him with the same blind faith, Mark was happy.

That had brought him to this situation, to forming part of a deserting plan, and therefore to betraying Doyoung’s trust. That’s why he was leaving his room in the middle of the night, because it was the only moment he could contact the plane without getting caught.

But the alarm went off, and Mark jumped right back into his room for a few seconds, his heart hammering in his chest. There were only a few options for which the alarm would ring at this time of the night. The first one that always came to everyone’s mind was a possible attack on the military base, but Mark knew that, even though plausible, it wasn’t the case.

It couldn’t be a coincidence, and Mark was aware that the deserters would be discovered sooner or later, but it had been only a few hours since they had escaped. Even if Mark wasn’t a soldier, staying in his room during a red alert would be suspicious – it would indicate that he knew it wasn’t an attack – so Mark pulled the door and strode into the hall.

By then, the whole place was full of soldiers that hadn’t joined the simulation. Some of them were running, and there were screams everywhere, not of panic, but of orders and higher ups organizing the rushed call.

When a soldier passed by and glanced at him, Mark took his chance and asked, “What happened?”

The man, a tall and strong soldier named Minho, was unbothered as he explained, “The simulation has been cancelled. There was a glitch and someone escaped.”

Theory proven, Mark didn’t care about appearances anymore. He ran towards the technology base, pushing people out of his way to go faster. He didn’t have enough time: his initial plan was to tell the party that everything had run as expected, but now he needed to warn them, to tell them to travel faster, hide better, to be alert.

The sentinels hadn’t moved from their spots, so when Mark skidded into the final hall, a hand pulled the back of his uniform. In a matter of second there was an annoyed expression in front of Mark’s face. The sentinel was a girl, Sowon, and Mark had studied her for years at this point – the amount of times he had sneaked into the base past curfew was innumerable – but it was the first time he got caught. He had assumed that sentinels would leave their spots because of the alarm, but they didn’t.

“This area is forbidden,” Sowon reminded him, far from friendly. She tapped her foot on the floor in impatience. “Reasons why I shouldn’t report you?”

“Damn, Kim, I work here,” Mark answered. The key was not to panic, not to run away, act like Sowon wasn’t being rational. It could fail, but the situation couldn’t turn worse than it already was – not because Mark couldn’t get a punishment, but because the worst punishment was not being able to communicate with the team. “There has been a breach, can’t you hear the bell? Doyoung sent me here to check if there is missing technology.”

It was a good excuse, Mark could give himself that. It helped to cover what he had done too: he had stolen a good amount of technology to implement it in the plane. It hadn’t been easy, but the advantage of having only Doyoung in the base was that Mark could be alone at times.

Sowon didn’t look entirely convinced, but it wouldn’t be prudent to forbid Mark’s entrance to his own workplace.

Mark already knew he had won before Sowon let go of him with a sigh and ordered, “Be fast.”

And Mark was. He hadn’t run that fast in a while, his heart racing in his chest as he remembered where he had hidden the communication speaker connected with the plane. It was a rudimentary version, but Mark had chosen it because it was so rudimentary that it couldn’t be detected, and no matter how much the Cyber Forces looked for a way to interfere with a supposed connection with the base, they would never succeed. It had its disadvantages too, for Mark could barely lift up the screen and settle it onto a table by himself, and the quality of the image was poor. Discretion was more important, however, and when Mark turned the audio and microphone set and the screen showed an empty room, he felt relief wash through him.

The positive part was that they had their communication devices functioning. The negative part was that Mark had to call several times, since no one responded, and time passed too slowly when he was in such a dangerous situation. He couldn’t tell if Sowon would dare to interrupt him, but if she did, Mark wouldn’t have any way to justify this.

Mark breathed in and gave it twenty more seconds. If they didn’t appear, they would have to interpret what Mark’s call meant afterwards. Ten. Five. Four. Three. Mark reached out to turn it off, ready to bolt out of the place.

And then, like there was someone watching out for his moves, Mark heard the characteristic noise of the device indicating that the call had been picked up. At first there wasn’t anyone on the screen, but one second later a boy inched closer to the camera, squinting.

It was Donghyuck. Mark cursed out loud. He needed anyone but _this_ Donghyuck.

“Shit. Shit. Donghyuck? Can you find Yukhei for me?” Mark pleaded, detaching his earphones from his ears to check if there were any noises coming from outside the base. There weren’t. “Or anyone, really. Just someone I can talk to.”

Donghyuck didn’t move, nor did he hint that he could understand Mark’s words. His eyes were empty, his face expressionless, and Mark felt the adrenaline expanding all over his body as he realized that Donghyuck was useless. Mark tried again, but Donghyuck just stared into the camera, observing Mark as if he was an animal trapped in a zoo. No matter how much Mark screamed, how much he begged, he wouldn’t be able to escape.

Mark couldn’t tell why, but a part of him was aware of what Donghyuck was going to do next, but it didn’t make it easier for him. His brain stopped altogether when the ghost of a smile appeared on Donghyuck’s face. Except it wasn’t a smile: it was a smirk, void of amusement, void of anything that could define Donghyuck. Instead there was a clear air of malice in it, a gesture that made Mark back away even if they were separated by miles.

“Donghyuck?” he called again, nonetheless, cautious.

Donghyuck shook his head very slowly.

Mark wondered if he was inside a nightmare, not awake, if he would wake up in any second and would run into this room again, but this time he would find the real Donghyuck. And he would be able to talk to Yukhei, to Renjun, to Jeno, to whoever that could listen to him.

But that didn’t happen. Mark only had Donghyuck and his smirk, his features contorted into a terrifying expression, and no way to exit the nightmare.

Then the screen went black. And Mark knew.

 

 

 

  **֍   Yuta. Cyber forces. Unit № 23   ֍**

 

Yuta had witnessed this scene before, but just once in his entire life.

Back then, when he was seven years old and had recently joined the army, he didn’t understand the implications of deserting. So he had observed the yard with wide eyes and an impressionable mind, all soldiers in formation while an assigned general walked up to the lectern to announce the bad news.

It was odd to be in the opposite situation this time. Yuta had gone from not understanding the implications to be implicated in a desertion scheme, and when he stepped into the yard, his knees trembled at the realization of what he and his friends had done.

Unlike most soldiers, Yuta already knew the announcement. The Cyber base had been invaded by special security three hours ago, and Yuta didn’t know why they knew, but they knew that the deserts had received help from Cyber soldiers. After one hour, the breach that Yuta had installed days ago had been discovered. And it was too specific, too detailed to be a simple mistake while building the simulation, so they had concluded that there was a spy among them.

That brought the main problem for Yuta: none of them were allowed to work alone anymore. At least four soldiers had to collaborate on the same task, and the group was altered every three hours to avoid letting supposed suspects work together. Besides, they were under constant vigilance and they would be for a long, long time. Maybe until they had caught the deserters, dead or alive, or even when they had to jailed the allies as well.

Yuta found his unit in a matter of seconds and strode towards them, crossing paths with panicked, lost soldiers that couldn’t find their unit, soldiers that were wearing the wrong uniform, female soldiers that hadn’t had time to tie their hair up.

And then, “Yuta!”

Yuta stilled, not believing his ears. The voice was enough for Yuta to recognize him, but when he followed the sound, the shock of watching Mark run towards him still hit him with full force. Yuta couldn’t understand what the kid was doing, but it was an awful idea. Moreover, he was a blue spot in a sea of black uniforms, and the way he was attracting stares was beyond dangerous.

But Mark didn’t care: he sprinted so fast that he couldn’t halt in time, crashing against Yuta. Yuta had to aid him to recover his balance, and if it wasn’t for the fright in Mark’s semblance, he would have scolded him right then and right there.

“Shut your mouth,” Yuta hissed between gritted teeth. “We must not talk in public.”

Despite attempting to continue walking, Mark didn’t surrender. He trailed behind Yuta, panting, and grabbed his sleeve like a kid would do to his father. It was eye-catching, because it showed his desperation, his stress, and Yuta closed his eyes in search for patience.

“This is urgent,” Mark insisted in a whisper. And when Yuta didn’t give signs of believing him, he added, “I can’t contact them!”

It took Yuta a second to understand. But that wasn’t supposed to happen: they had made sure that every item was functioning before letting them escape. And Mark would have never chosen a faulty strategy to maintain the contact.

“What?” Yuta asked. “Shit.”

They couldn’t talk about this here. But discretion was the last thing that crossed Yuta’s mind as he hauled Mark into the nearest warehouse that he found, isolated from the yard. Mark grew scared by the second, but he didn’t complain, for he was aware that he couldn’t explain it in front of the whole army body.

“Donghyuck-” Mark said, leaning against the wall and trying to recover his breath. “He turned the whole hardware off, and don’t ask me _why_ , but I know he will get rid of it. He’s a menace for the team.”

There wasn’t any need to ask why, anyhow. All of them, except Yukhei due to his stubbornness, had been wary of Donghyuck as soon as he woke up. It had been a mixture of the will to protect him, because it was Donghyuck, _their_ Donghyuck, and the fear of not recognizing him, because that wasn’t Donghyuck.

Taeyong had given green light to the idea because Yukhei had reasoned well, and taking into account that Donghyuck would come back to the base safe and sound – and more important, he wouldn’t be able to harm anyone – Taeyong had thought it would be fine. Yuta should have stopped that. He was the one that held all the vital information, and still he had allowed it to happen.

“Listen, Mark,” Yuta said, slinging his fingers around Mark’s nape. Mark stared at him with that glint that only the younger ones dedicated to Yuta: with trust and love, with the certainty that Yuta would protect him. That Yuta knew better. “They know there are allies among us, so they’re going to keep an eye on us. They found the breach I implemented and it’s too obvious that it was done on purpose.”

It wasn’t shocking news for Mark. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and both of them were conscious that they had to face an investigation. However, Yuta meant it to have an effect on him, and he felt the dread invading him when Mark frowned at him, not understanding why Yuta wanted to be careful.

“Getting caught doesn’t worry me now!” he exclaimed, too nervous to realize that he was screaming at a higher up. “We need to talk to them. You can locate them, right? Once you have located them we can establish contact and warn them and-”

Yuta wished he could agree to that plan, but it was impossible. Perhaps if the alarm had went off a few hours later, they would have been able to communicate with the plane and tell them that they were on their own from now on. The _ifs_ and _maybes_ were useless by then, and Yuta wasn’t disposed to let Mark’s hope run wild so that he put himself in danger.

“I can’t,” Yuta cut him off, serious. “The moment I locate them, it will be registered in the database and I won’t be able to delete it. All Cyber units are surrounded by security now. If I find them, it’s over for them.”

Mark opened his mouth, speechless, his pupils trembling. Yuta could tell that he was trying to find a solution, because if there was something that Mark could do, that was to put his brain to work. 

In a desperate last attempt, Mark muttered, “If they find them and we tell them, they will have enough time to evacuate the plane.”

“And how will that happen? Will I betray my votes in front of a whole unit?” Yuta retorted. That made Mark shrink, but it was natural. He would never dare to ask that from Yuta or from anyone, for that matter; Yuta knew that because he wouldn’t beg Mark to do it either. “My head will be on the floor before I can say the second word, Mark.”

There were moments like this one in life, especially as a soldier, in which Yuta had to look into someone’s eyes and see the death in them. It was often in relatives, but in the battleground, you could catch a glimpse of it every time a friend died in front of another friend. Even after a thousand times, Yuta hadn’t become used to it. There was an odder situation than that, however, and Yuta was living it right then: looking into Mark’s eyes, seeing death, and being aware that Mark was finding the same in Yuta’s eyes.

Silence instilled, just for a second, before a bigger concern became present. The door behind Yuta creaked, and it didn’t take a genius to know that someone had spotted them entering when they should have been forming lines.

The shocking part was that among all the possibilities, the intruder was Taeyong. Yuta wondered for how long Taeyong had watched him, perhaps even followed him. Taeyong carried his anger in a particular way today, and even though Yuta had grown used to it, that didn’t mean that it lost strength. Someone like Taeyong, under the effect of simple irritation, was scary. Even if Yuta trusted him, he was scary, and that was the reason Taeyong was a captain and not a mere soldier: no one dared to disobey him. At least not face to face.

Yuta rotated on his feet to confront him, not without feeling Mark freeze on his spot beforehand, terrified.

Mark’s tension became understandable when Yuta looked at Taeyong and realized that he was staring at Mark, a glower that could kill anyone from a heart attack.

“Get out and join your position, Lee,” Taeyong spat, voice full of resentment.

Yuta wondered where that resentment was coming from, but the whole situation was suspicious enough for Taeyong to be hostile. That was the reason Yuta didn’t contradict him, didn’t make Mark stay, and just gave Mark a soft pat on his back as he passed by, head down.

The atmosphere shifted to a graver tone as soon as Mark left. Taeyong walked up to Yuta, so close that Yuta thought for a moment that they would fight, but Taeyong just pushed him deeper into the room, as though he wanted more privacy.

“Yuta,” he started, breathless. Anxious, Yuta would have called it, except he didn’t understand why. Until Taeyong added, “They fucking deserted, this isn’t a joke.”

Taeyong didn’t have to ask or, for that matter, to force the truth out of him. He was there, reproaching that Yuta didn’t give this issue the importance it deserved, blaming Yuta for it. Perhaps Taeyong hadn’t been as oblivious as Yuta had thought, but he had enabled them, supposing that whatever they were planning it couldn’t be so disastrous. It was in times like these that Yuta saw the Taeyong that he had fallen in love with: a bit lenient, a bit weak for their friends, for Yuta himself.

“I know it’s not a joke,” Yuta replied, but he didn’t admit to anything, which was Taeyong’s intention.

“You helped them, didn’t you?” Taeyong grunted. “At least have the guts to lie to me, fuck.”

Yuta closed his eyes. He had already lied to Taeyong several times and he wanted to avoid another one, but he preferred silence to speaking the truth.

“Don’t do this,” Yuta pleaded.

However, Taeyong lifted Yuta’s chin to inspect his face, and when Yuta obeyed that silent order, he noticed that Taeyong was hiding something from him. This wasn’t a mere fit of pride, or that Taeyong was hurt because Yuta had operated behind his back. They would be fighting by now if that was the case.

“Yuta,” Taeyong started, watery eyes boring into Yuta. “All this is a circus, can’t you see it?”

Yuta didn’t see anything. What was the difference between this alert and the one Yuta had experienced before? There was none, Yuta didn’t find any.

He breathed out, “What do you mean?”

“It’s a trick to distract the allies. That’s it, you, Mark and whoever else is involved,” Taeyong explained, though he sounded as terrified as Yuta felt. Even if Taeyong had assumed that yes, his own boyfriend had broken his pact with the army, he didn’t give any sign of wanting to hand Yuta over. The general wasn’t here now. “They located them two hours ago and there’s a whole party after them to destroy the plane. You know what we do with renegades.”

Yuta did. And he should have moved, he should have reacted as fast as possible, yet there wasn’t any way to fix this. The explanations he had given to Mark just minutes ago hit him, because his past self was right. Without Mark’s old communication device, they couldn’t contact them. Terror paralyzed Yuta, and it wasn’t illogical terror: it was the certainty of knowing what was going to happen and how he didn’t have any control over it.

The next thing Yuta was aware of was that Taeyong was hugging him, sinking his head in the crook of his neck, and only then Yuta realized that he had lost all strength in his legs and couldn’t stand anymore.

“You have to stop that,” Yuta murmured to Taeyong, but it had the same effect than talking to the stars. If anything, Taeyong’s hands were more tied than Yuta’s were, and there was no doubt that he was under vigilance given his personal connection to the Cyber Unit through Yuta. “They will die.”

Taeyong’s lips draw a smile against his neck, and though Yuta didn’t see him, he knew that it was the saddest smile a man could give: the acceptance that it was too late.

“Do you think I can stop it?” Taeyong weakly asked. Yuta was conscious that Taeyong would feel guilty and stupid for letting love blind him, for not confronting Yuta in time before he could do this – this stupid thing he had done. “I know you helped them. You don’t have to tell me, but if there’s a way you can contact them and warn them, do it.”

Taeyong ignored that Mark and he had lost the connection, but as Yuta opened his mouth, no sounds came out. He couldn’t tell Taeyong that their friends were about to die, and that both of them had directly or indirectly participated in it. It was a sentence for too many people, Taeyong and Yuta included. There was no way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe it took me a thousand years to update even though the chapter has been 80% written since one month and a half ago and I'M SORRY FOR THAT.
> 
> BUT let's bet. someone is going to get really really hurt in the next chapter. wanna place some bets? :)
> 
> I also made the playlist with the chapter titles: [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/xapk2ygmdpk4klll311fovbuk/playlist/6PQEvAMmHXgmgSkw0hBZRY?si=hMgfSOdoRaa4rLIXIxDbng)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [Curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)!


	8. Iridescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're in love with him, Jeno.” Jaemin retorted. He had never spoken such words out loud; he wasn't prepared for how much they hurt, for the lack of a denial from Jeno's part, or maybe some comfort that reminded him that Jeno loved him, too. Jaemin gulped down the knot in his throat and confessed, “I'm learning to accept this shit, you know? Your feelings aren't going to change just because you, because we want to.”

 

  **֍   Jisung. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

There were small details from Chenle that Jisung sometimes noticed. Details that explained why Chenle complemented him in body and mind, and why one day Chenle would be a better soldier than him.

After dragging Yerin and Eunbi and leaving them on the bed, Chenle had locked the door and, much to Jisung’s fleeting horror, he had deactivated the internal code. They were trapped inside the room, for typing the code into the door wouldn’t function anymore, and they would have to send a signal to the exterior so that someone from the party freed them.

Jisung didn’t question Chenle’s reasons, since he could hear Renjun and Yukhei screaming at each other. His nerves were about to explode as it was. For once, Jisung was on the edge while Chenle wasn’t, and Jisung discovered that Chenle was skilled at calming people down. Maybe not people in general, but just Jisung.

They sat by the bed, for they had to monitor every move that Yerin and Eunbi did. Although they couldn’t look at each other for that same reason, Chenle reached out and interlaced their fingers together, and the weight on Jisung’s shoulders faded away bit by bit, stroke by stroke.

Eunbi was the first one to recover her autonomy. Jisung had watched the way her eyes were moving, frenetic, for almost two hours; she wasn’t angry, but she was scared. And when she managed to move her arm, slamming the headboard as to find support, Jisung understood why Chenle had confined all of them together.

It wasn’t easy to reduce Eunbi, because even if Jisung was taller than her, she was stronger. She screamed and kicked, ran to the door and tried to knock it down with the strength of her legs – it was terrible to witness how the door did tremble under the attack, but Jisung knew that humans could gather extraordinary strength in certain situations. And even though Jisung’s aim was to avoid a fight, he winded up flinging back at her. Chenle stared at them as Jisung forced her onto the floor, panting, and flickered up his eyes at Chenle. Jisung needed verbal assistance, orders. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do next with Eunbi, because if she was determined to attack them every time she held a spark of freedom, they would have to tranquilize her.

“Let her go when her breathing stabilizes,” Chenle whispered, eyes travelling from Jisung to Yerin.

Jisung realized how surreal their duties were. He felt like a kid in many aspects. He had never been in a battle, he had never killed anyone, and however, he wasn’t lost in this wave of terrible decisions. Somehow, this was the first time Jisung was putting his knowledge into action, and it was towards a purpose that contradicted his whole training.

And it didn’t matter. He felt complete just by being aware of Chenle’s presence, as though Chenle could clutch all the pieces of his soul together, no matter what.

“Renjun is so angry,” Chenle muttered then, the sounds from the exterior leaking into their environment. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

Jisung pointed out, “Everyone is angry.” And then, remembering what Chenle had told him months ago, he asked. “Didn’t he ever tell you? You were brought into the army by the same recruiting team, right?”

Scorning at the question, Chenle explained, “He’s a damn good actor. He looked so scared, and maybe he was, but he had his whole background story prepared. I wonder who helped him to rebuild his identity.”

“It’s not just a story.” Jisung counted Eunbi's amount of inhalations within five seconds, concluded that she was still too nervous, and shifted his attention to Chenle again. “It’s documents, birth certificates, falsifications. Our army would never hire someone with the smallest suspicion on their record.”

Chenle nodded. No matter how they looked at it, it was impressive that Renjun had infiltrated into their territory, even forming part of the military. It was impressive that Yukhei had known and had kept his mouth shut, too.

“Now you know who to ask if you ever want to disappear,” Chenle observed, tilting his head to the side. Jisung felt his heart race at the sight and looked down at Eunbi instead, aware that Chenle was sensing his emotions, the churn of his stomach, that emotion Jisung could not name. “We'll need it after this.”

Among all the possibilities of this mission, there was one that stood out like a waterfall in the middle of a desert. If their future came to parting ways, every one of them would leave with their partners, there wasn't any doubt about it. If it went wrong, Jisung might not see the others ever again, but he would spend his whole life with Chenle, even if they weren't Jisung and Chenle anymore. They might achieve new lives, new names, but always together.

“She's moving,” Chenle announced, bolting out of his chair. He was right, but Jisung ignored how he had detected it so early, since Yerin hadn't visibly moved any of her limbs yet. “Yerin?”

Before Yerin could even try to answer Chenle, Eunbi whined under Jisung's grasp. Anyone would have reproached that Jisung was weak, but he wasn't heartless enough not to release Eunbi when she was worried about her partner. Jisung would have killed a hundred men if Chenle was the one lying on bed right then, so he related to Eunbi's illogical attitude.

Still, it wasn't the right decision, because as soon as Jisung released Eunbi, Eunbi shoot her elbow back and hit him right on his face. Jisung fell back, an overwhelming pain blurring his vision and his ability to think. Only when he realized that Eunbi could assault Chenle next, he gathered the will to crawl on four and grasp the bed to lift himself up.

It wasn't necessary, because Eunbi had run past Chenle without dedicating him a single glance; she was at the feet of the bed instead, her hands covering Yerin's while she observed her with blatant desperation in his eyes.

“Shit,” Jisung cursed out loud, but it sounded like a moan, like a dog demanding food. Pitiful. “You almost broke my nose, beast.”

Chenle spun around to face him, a subtle crease between his eyebrows. "You're an idiot," he informed him.

It was out of pure concern, and Jisung was aware that he had been careless, so he wasn't going to excuse himself. A part of him admitted that the small piece of attention Chenle gave him in that moment, the fact that he squatted down to check Jisung nose as if it was the most precious thing in the world, was worth the risk.

“Thank you,” Jisung muttered, amused as Chenle shoved his face away, not standing that Jisung found his own mistake funny.

Unlike Eunbi, Yerin didn't attempt to escape or fight them as soon as she moved. She sat up, talked to Eunbi for a while, though they were soothing words and not a real conversation. Jisung wasn't so confident about letting them whisper to each other for so long, but Chenle stopped him every time he was about to interrupt – like warning him not to meddle between two partners. Just like Jisung didn’t let anyone mess with Chenle, Yerin wouldn't allow them to mess with Eunbi even if they were their hostages.

The sense of danger dissipated with time, but Jisung never proposed to unlock the door. The silence had been installed back inside the plane, the darkness visible through the windows, and the four of them were drowned in a silence only cut by occasional talks. The girls weren't disposed to sleep, which was understandable after so much tension, but Jisung noticed how Chenle grew exhausted by the second, his eyelids closing from time to time.

He wasn't the only one who detected it, since Eunbi's eyes were strained on them. The advantage was that Jisung was used to being watched, and he knew why Eunbi was analyzing them so closely - they didn't look like a pair that would kidnap soldiers, or that would be involved in a mess of this caliber, for that matter.

“Will you let us go?” Eunbi asked, observing how Chenle rested his head against Jisung's shoulder.

Chenle and Jisung didn't have any power to decide that, and Jisung had to hide his confusion when Chenle replied right away, “Eventually.” Chenle eyed Jisung, a hint so that he didn't contradict him. “Before we enter enemy territory.”

Perhaps Yukhei had revealed his plans to Chenle, because that made sense. They couldn’t free Eunbi and Yerin before that, for they would contact their army and inform them; but as soon as they set feet on another country, the military wouldn’t be able to chase them down. On the contrary, the country could consider embracing the deserters, since they had shown opposition to their regimen.

But before Eunbi could complain, Yerin announced, “I don't want to leave.”

It caught both Jisung and Chenle off guard, so they were unable to conceal their shock. However, the determination on Yerin’s face meant that she wasn't joking, and Chenle exchanged a glance with Jisung, confused.

“What?” Eunbi asked with a nervous laugh. Hysterical. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No.” Yerin was serious. She turned to Jisung and Chenle again, and sighed. “Maybe. It doesn't matter. I get why you're doing this, and I support you. The military doesn't care about us, I already knew that, but you aren't traitors just because you want to rescue Jungwoo. There should be an official party for it. We shouldn't be abandoned like we are disposable toys.”

But that was what they were, Jisung had the urge to tell her. They had been educated to believe so, to give up their lives when necessary, and no one entered the military if they appreciated life in any form. The problem was that they weren't so prone to give up their partner's lives.

“You will have to ask Yukhei.” Chenle licked his lips in nervousness, but Jisung gave him an almost indiscernible nod so that he went ahead. “He might not agree even if you want to help.”

Yerin understood that.

Jisung curled a hand around Chenle's wrist, and Chenle received the warning right away. It was time to leave them alone, and for them to rest for at least a couple of hours. They were exhausted for many reasons and it wouldn’t be fixed by sleeping.  Jisung needed to touch Chenle, to cuddle him, since Chenle only slept in complete peace when they were together. Both of their minds had been a mess for several days, and Jisung was dying to get a moment of calmness with his soulmate.

 

 

 

   **֍   Jaemin. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

Jaemin would have preferred if Jeno wasn't by his side.

He feared leaving Jeno alone, too, but the best option would have been to send him back to bed. Jeno had insisted in accompanying him when the bell rang – it had rung earlier than it should have, and Jaemin had rushed out of bed with horrible scenarios in his mind – as though Jaemin needed help to pilot. It was an excuse to check if there was any real problem with Renjun, as well as not to be alone and potentially confront Renjun. Jaemin didn't dare to remark that Jeno couldn't escape from his by latching onto him.

They were partners, and they were supposed to aid each other during hard times, but Jeno refused to open up. He deemed it inutile, since the connection revealed their emotions anyway, but Jaemin had realized that it was a strategy to avoid discussions. A strategy to pretend that there weren't any bumps in their relationship.

Jeno was so, so sad after crossing paths with Renjun that Jaemin felt like crying too. It was a miracle that Jeno wasn't drowning in tears, for no human could hold such horrible feelings within without releasing them. Jeno was releasing them into Jaemin, not on purpose, but Jeno's despair was still hindering Jaemin's performance.

When they changed places and Jeno started piloting, Jaemin had the instinct of running away to breathe. He couldn't. Jeno was in a worse state than him to pilot, and unlike Jaemin, he was going to need the assistance, thus Jaemin stayed.

“Please, don't hate me, but-” Jaemin began, fiddling with his own hands. “Why don't you want to have _that_ conversation?”

The only thing that Jaemin felt from Jeno was exhaustion. His body wasn't tired, but his heart was, and Jaemin could see the grief in his eyes even if they were stuck on the piloting panel.

“I'm not ready,” was all that Jeno muttered, fingers flying over the panel, and a hand gripping the wheel.

That was an understatement. Jeno was never ready. It was all about retreating, hiding, kissing Jaemin and then kissing Renjun and not telling him, not compromising.

“You're in love with him, Jeno.” Jaemin retorted. He had never spoken such words out loud; he wasn't prepared for how much they hurt, for the lack of a denial from Jeno's part, or maybe some comfort that reminded him that Jeno loved him, too. Jaemin gulped down the knot in his throat and confessed, “I'm learning to accept this shit, you know? Your feelings aren't going to change just because you, because _we_ want to.”

Just like Jaemin couldn't cast away the fact that Jeno was his soulmate, the love of his life, but he would suffer less if Jeno wasn't. Still, his happiness was based on him and it was impossible to let go. Yukhei had once told him that a man couldn't be happy if they hadn't known pain beforehand, but Jaemin remembered being happy before Renjun came into the picture.

“He lied to me about his identity. About _him,_ ” Jeno gritted his teeth, punctuating every word as if he was learning to talk again. Jaemin knew that it was because he was forcing himself not to lash at Jaemin, since he wasn't at fault, but a primal part of Jeno's soul needed to snap at _anyone_. “I don't know who I'm in love with.”

Jeno had a point. Maybe Renjun was the same person with or without his past, but there was a small chance that he faked every single thing in his new life. No one could have ever pointed out a drift in his personality, since he was a blank paper, and therefore he could have begun from scratch.

“There must be a reason for it, Jaemin persevered. He didn't believe in his own words. Deep inside, Jaemin was conscious that he would be benefitted if Renjun didn't have a good reason. Jeno renouncing to Renjun would clear the path for him, and everything would be the same for Jeno and him again. “And if there isn't, then you can take this decision you're taking now. Renjun isn't going anywhere because you can't deal with this.”

Jaemin didn't know when he had crossed the line, but Jeno lost his patience after that: he slammed his fist against the panel, so hard that the panel trembled. Jaemin jumped away, grabbing his own chair, and then hurried up to incline over the panel and fix all the variables which Jeno had changed with his fist. It was an automatic response of his brain, because it was a priority to keep the stabilization of the plane or they would fall down in a matter of seconds.

“Shut the fuck up, Jaemin,” Jeno spat at him.

Jaemin did. Jeno was so angry that, despite the fact that their connection was more sensitive than ever, he ignored how Jaemin took in that remark. Jaemin reckoned that Jeno was on the edge, so upset, that he was unable to consider Jaemin's feelings as well. It wasn't typical of Jeno to treat people that way, less Jaemin.

The panel wasn't intact, much to Jaemin's irritation, because Jeno's punch had modified more than some simple variables. There were around four spots on it, miles away from them, that moved at the same rhythm that their plane fled, which led Jaemin to believe that the screen had sunk and it was in contact with the cables underneath, giving false positives. The worst that could happen was this: breaking a panel that they needed to detect other planes and objects, vital to fly. Yukhei was going to kill them.

Jeno didn't notice the variations until Jaemin drew his hand away, dubious, trying to come up with a solution. The four spots remained there, big and clear, and the panel kept identifying them every two seconds. There was an alarm beeping somewhere.

Jeno sounded horrified when he asked, “What is that?”

It was difficult to block the emotions that streamed from Jeno. But panicking was a fatal mistake, so Jaemin breathed out a calm, “I think you broke the panel.”

Both of them knew that was a hopeless lie, because not even Jaemin could deny that the spots weren't static, that they weren't a tiny gash on the screen. They altered their own curse from time to time, but maintain an obvious formation that was meant to surround their plane.

“The panel is fine,” Jeno said, voice trembling. His fingers trembled too as he pressed his index finger on one of the red points. The panel unfolded additional information: the weight and size of the object, the exact distance, the thermodynamics of its passengers. “Those are real.”

“Je-”

Jaemin never managed to finish his warning. It lasted only for a second, but the look that Jeno threw at him was full of fear and determination; that look Yukhei usually displayed before jumping into one of his crazy ideas. Recognizing that spark in Jeno was a sign of what was about come.

“Tell Yukhei right now,” he demanded. “Tell him!”

His hand flew for the wheel on his left and hauled it, and then the plane drifted, the nose of the plane pointing down with an aggressive pull. Jaemin fled out of his seat, gasping, but Jeno didn't. He had pressed his feet against the downside of the machinery to keep himself in place, knees trembling. The way he had changed the direction of the plane was beyond dangerous, but Jeno was a great pilot, and he knew how to create a distraction.

Jaemin crawled over the floor, grasping at everything he found to move around the plane. Fighting against the gravity and the strength of the plane was harder than he had ever imagined, but Jaemin would have been able to do anything in this situation.

There were four planes chasing them. They were going down.

 

 

 

  **֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Yukhei fell down.

Not even for a second he was reluctant to believe what was happening. Yukhei had been in so many battles that his instinct was developed for this, as natural as breathing or blinking.

Yukhei was certain about two things only, though. One, they were in danger. It wasn't a fault in his friends' piloting. Two, the fact that neither Jaemin nor Jeno had informed about the maneuver before taking action screamed that they didn't have time to fix it.

Yukhei didn't even remember that he had fallen asleep next to Renjun after the fight, and that they were alone in the room. Now both of them were on the floor. Renjun had been shot away farther away than him, since he weighed way less than Yukhei, and had crashed against a shelf full of electrical guns. By the time Yukhei processed that he was their leader, that he had to run out of the room and start screaming orders, Renjun was already on his feet.

Yukhei felt the dread rush through his veins. “Did you break anything?” he questioned, not sure of wanting to know the answer. To his relief, Renjun shook his head, though it was evident that the collision had hurt him. He was bending over, so Yukhei was sure that Renjun had lied. “We have to evacuate.”

Giving Renjun instructions was a curious feeling, but Yukhei didn't have time to dwell on it. Renjun staggered towards the door, and Yukhei followed suit; Jeno was swerving to the right, then down, then to the right again, as if he was piloting a small, aerodynamic plane, and not a huge military cargo aircraft.

Chaos had spread in the plane, but Yukhei was lucky to have soldiers as good as his friends. A turmoil meant alarm, but not hysterics. Everyone knew what they had to do, even if they did it by dragging their soulmate along by the hand – like Jisung and Chenle – or by catering to other persons first – like Kun. In the main room, Youngho was assembling the parachute package around Yerin, and Ten around Eunbi. They could do it themselves, but none of them would have forgiven themselves if they hadn’t saved them first: they were two soldiers that weren’t involved in their insane schemes, and they didn’t deserve to die for their decisions.

Yukhei ran for the communication system that he had established with Mark. It wasn’t a waste of time at all, because they needed it if they plane was about to become ashes; if they were stranded in the middle of nowhere, Mark would be their only salvation.

Yet when Yukhei typed the code of the cabinet that hid the most important parts of the system, he discovered that it was empty. He didn’t have time to think. He sprinted back into the main room, sweating and about to break down, and the plane trembled again. Jeno was drifting with aggressiveness once more, and this time he had a strong reason to do so. Jeno’s attempt failed, because the next thing Yukhei knew was that he had been propelled twenty meters away from his original position, like a void puppet in a hurricane. There was blood in his hands, but he had no idea where it was coming from. It was likely that it was his own blood.

The plane twirled in the air like a spinning top. Someone screamed, yet it was such a ripped yell that the voice was impossible to identify.

Yukhei lifted his gaze, surrounded by dust and smoke and a hundred objects blazing past him. Into him, as well, but he couldn’t sense any pain right then. Chenle and Jisung had jumped off the plane by then, and so had Eunbi and Yerin. Kun was nowhere to seen in the main room, which meant that he had taken the leap too. Youngho and Ten were right on the edge to follow his steps, and even though Ten looked back at him, Youngho hugged him and dragged both of them into the nothingness. Yukhei didn’t have to take care of them anymore.

Everyone else was in grave danger.

Yukhei caught sight of Jaemin, who had abandoned the pilot’s cabin for some reason. He had regretted it. There wasn’t any need to intuit what Jaemin’s next move was, because he was already moving towards the pilot’s cabin, like an animal dashing into his own death.

Yukhei wished he could let out the string of curses swelling in his chest. Jaemin was an idiot. Instead of escaping, he was going to rescue Jeno.

Yukhei shouted at him, but there was too much noise for Jaemin to hear him. Even if Jaemin had caught his words, he would have ignored them, because Jeno was more important than his own safety. Jaemin was aware that he was destroying his only chance to escape, and Yukhei knew him well enough to say that Jaemin would do it once and once again, no matter what Yukhei ordered.

All in all, Jaemin wasn’t the only one: Renjun was running after Jaemin as well. Two fools with the same idea in mind, with the same person in mind.

Yukhei would have died for any of them, but he would have died a thousand times for Renjun. Luck was on his side, because Renjun was still at Yukhei’s reach, and Renjun could have anticipated his intentions, but the smoke had blocked his vision.

When Yukhei slung his arms around his waist, almost tackling him down, Renjun jabbed his elbows back into Yukhei’s stomach. He had expected that, had intentionally hardened his abdomen for the blow, yet Renjun had experience body to body and he went for the weakest spot. Yukhei howled, refusing to release him, and the size difference allowed him to handle Renjun and drag him to a safer zone.

Inside the ceiling of the plane, there were body holders: they were a system of sacks that closed around their owner and kept them still and frozen in the air, protected by special layers that would break only under extreme circumstances. Unless the ceiling of the plane was completely destroyed, it could work to mitigate the crash. At this point, with the plane spiraling down, using a parachute wasn’t an option. This was the best option to save Renjun.

“Let me go!” Renjun screamed. Renjun raising his voice at him didn’t affect Yukhei, but hearing his tears tore Yukhei apart. Renjun was going to hate him for so long, for not letting him die with the rest. “Yukhei, no! No, no, no!”

Yukhei pressed his hand against the skin recognition panel and twenty sacks were librated at once, hanging from the ceiling. Grabbing the closest one, Yukhei kicked it with his heel and it opened like a flower, its wings ready to swallow them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, a whisper that was engulfed by the roar of the fire. Yukhei wondered if they had lost all the engines by then. “So sorry.”

Yukhei wasn’t. He pushed Renjun into the sack, but in the last second Renjun grasped him by the hair and tugged him inside. Just in a few occasions Yukhei had been defeated so easily, because there weren’t many soldiers like Renjun, those that could think of vengeance in a moment of death. Renjun’s vengeance was to save him.

Yukhei collapsed against Renjun with a gasp. The sack shut around them thanks to the automatic system, and they found themselves confined in a space that was meant for one person. However, Renjun held onto him with both fury and fright, as though he intended to tell Yukhei that if any of them died tonight, Yukhei would have to grieve with him.

Yukhei shut his eyes close, and then the plane crashed.

 

 

 

  **֍   Renjun. Specialized Nursing: systematical recovery and organ restoration  ֍**

 

Renjun wondered how many times he could dodge death.

There had to be a limit to his bad luck. He should have died on so many occasions that sometimes he doubted that he was alive; sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, true confusion blurring his rationality because he wasn’t supposed to feel anything. He was supposed to be dead. Sometimes he had to touch his own face and body, unable to recognize himself, until his hands assimilated that he was real.

There were times in which surviving wasn’t the best route, and this was one of them.

In the last moment, their sack had pried loose from the ceiling, probably because the impact had demolished the upper part of the plane. At first, the world had been black. Renjun was certain that the darkness had lasted for less than twenty seconds, pretending to be an eternity, and then Renjun breathed again, panting for air.

The first thing he noticed was that Yukhei’s body was limp against his. He wasn’t conscious. Renjun gave himself only one second to calm down, to remember that he couldn’t let his mind take over his body or otherwise he would become inutile. Even if years had gone by since the last time he had been in a battle, he was prepared to face this situation.

Renjun checked Yukhei’s pulse with firm hands, fighting against the weight against him. Yukhei was alive. Renjun wouldn’t be in a matter of minutes if he didn’t move Yukhei aside without hurting any of them, because his lungs weren’t able to expand with the weight of Yukhei on him. It took Renjun at least two minutes to scan their surroundings with his hands, making sure that the zone didn’t have dangerous, sharp objects, and then to shove Yukhei off him.

There was so much smoke that Renjun had a coughing fit as soon as he opened the sack, his eyes watering until he was blind. He covered Yukhei’s mouth and nose in a bad attempt to protect him, because without masks both of them were going to be intoxicated in the next few minutes. Even though Renjun needed to find Jeno and Jaemin, leaving Yukhei alone was a mistake, since the plane could explode at any moment. He gathered the courage to believe that he could carry him outside.

They had crashed into the middle of a forest, and the plane had spread like a broken glass, different parts far away from each other. There was fire everywhere, flames creeping towards the sky, swallowing the trees. They weren’t intimidating in Renjun’s eyes, not when there was a disjointed plane with thousands of dangerous, deathly pieces. To their luck, they didn’t have any engines nearby, so at least Renjun didn’t have to care about explosions.

By the time Renjun managed to drag Yukhei’s body away from the smoke, he was sweating buckets. He didn’t feel tired thanks to the adrenaline, however, and after examining Yukhei once more, his breathing and his hearbeats, Renjun propelled himself up and ran for the others. For Jeno.

Renjun didn’t have to look for them. He _heard_ them. It was Jeno who was shrieking, crying, making a noise that was impossible to identify as human. Not Jaemin.

Jaemin was lying on the ground, Jeno hovering over him, his hands not daring to touch Jaemin out of fear, but being as close to him as possible. There was blood everywhere. It was mostly Jaemin’s, but Jeno had a cut on the side of his head and his body, uniform in tatters, was full of red, pink and purple. There was a reason why Jeno couldn’t sense any of his wounds. And all of sudden Renjun understood why Jeno’s screams weren’t just out of desperation: he was feeling Jaemin’s pain.

A bar of the diameter of a child’s fist had pierced through Jaemin’s stomach. It stood rigid, proud, like making fun of the three of them. Much to Renjun’s horror, Jaemin was awake, blood spilling out of his mouth.

Renjun was on this mission for this. Not to watch, but to save people. It didn’t mean that he was made of stone, but he could slip into his medical, neutral mode for a while, dismissing the terror bubbling up in his chest as he looked at Jaemin.

Jeno didn’t see Renjun at all, blinded by the pain and the panic, when Renjun kneeled next to him. Despite the closeness, Renjun still had to grasp Jeno’s shoulders to move him, to shift his attention away from Jaemin. Renjun wished that he didn’t have to look at Jaemin either; it was easier to run away and deny what was happening in front of him, but he couldn’t fail Jeno. He couldn’t fail Jaemin. 

“Jeno,” Renjun called him. Jeno’s face was a mess of tears, blood and dirt, and his gaze was glassy, unable to focus on Renjun, gazing through him like he was invisible. “Look at me. We have a regeneration kit in the section 32A of the plane. Find it.”

For a soldier drowned in terror, military language was a way to snap him back to reality. An order would be registered by the rational side of his mind, separated from all the feelings Jeno was experimenting. And, as expected, Jeno understood that.

“I can’t,” he cried out, and a second later he collapsed, his hands falling on Renjun’s thighs for support.

Renjun lifted him by his armpits, not disposed to let Jeno pass out on him when he needed him the most. When they needed each other the most. Jeno was almost a dead weight, and Renjun wasn’t sure of the extent of his wounds, yet he was conscious and awake, and Renjun couldn’t be picky with the help.

“I know you can,” Renjun whispered to him, cupping his face so that Jeno listened to him. Jeno stared at him like Renjun was the only hope he had ever had, like Renjun had the privilege of rewinding the time and making all this disappear. “Jaemin is going to be okay if we get the kit.”

Even if Jeno wasn’t in the right state to read his expression, Renjun didn’t afford showing his fears to any of them. Jaemin’s eyes were open and stuck on him, and Renjun avoided them on purpose as he leaned over him to inspect the damage.

There were good news, but also bad news. If Jeno found the kit in time, and if it was in good conditions, curing Jaemin would be a hard process, yet not a delusion. The bad news was that Renjun would have to spend all the material he had brought to regenerate Jaemin’s stomach, and the next one to get hurt to this extreme – or if one of the other guys was in a similar condition – would die. In fact, the wound was so awful that Renjun, despite his knowledge, didn’t understand how Jaemin wasn’t dead. He couldn’t assure that when Jeno and he had to pull the bar out and through him again, Jaemin wouldn’t die. He’d lose conscience, that was certain. Treating Jaemin when he wasn’t staring at him with a terrible spark of acceptance in his pupils was going to be an advantage, however.

Renjun straightened up, breathed in, and began to shake so much that he had to press his hands against the ground. And then, as though Jaemin had noticed, his hand moved over and fell on Renjun’s right hand. His fingers curled up and Renjun, too shocked to react, accepted his gesture.

Jaemin was either consoling him or finding consolation in Renjun. Renjun had seen many people die but when it came to Jaemin, his fingers interlacing through Renjun’s, he couldn’t tell what his last wish was. He wasn’t going to allow him to have a last wish, though, because giving up was the fastest way to die.

“Don’t die on me,” Renjun pleaded with him. Jaemin’s hand was cold, and Renjun gave him the little warmth that was left in his body. Jaemin parted his lips in an attempt to reply, but there was blood and nothing else coming out, and Renjun shushed him. “We aren’t going to leave Jeno alone, yeah?”

Renjun didn’t need a verbal answer, because the promise was in Jaemin’s eyes. They could only wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where is donghyuck?  
> :)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [Curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)!


	9. After the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life was such a tender thing. It was odd to remember that a few weeks ago he was chiding Jaemin for being jealous of Renjun, and now Renjun was hauling a bar out of his stomach, praying for him to stay alive – because Renjun hadn’t said it with words, but Yukhei could tell that in the middle of a forest, alone, it was hard to fix a mess of that caliber. Yukhei had seen Renjun pray before, yet they never talked about it, because soldiers didn’t pray, and Renjun wasn’t a soldier anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two months have passed since the last update, so  
> and this is what you missed on glee: they escaped through a battle simulation thanks to yuta opening an exit for them, got caught hours after, and because donghyuck purposefully broke the communication between mark and the plane, their plane got shot down. everyone except jeno, jaemin, renjun and yukhei jumped off before the crash. jaemin has a bar through his stomach and is, how they say, dying. everyone else is trapped in a freaking endless forest. here we go
> 
> this is the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWYG7lZBc6U) for this chapter

 

  **֍   Chenle. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

Chenle had been so worried about Jisung that, instead of focusing on his own landing, he had swirled his parachute around to follow Jisung. He had whirled and whirled, had attempted to be as close as he could to Jisung, but he had forgotten to watch out his own trajectory.

He had been shoved down a cliff, kicking the air for nothing, screaming because that was going to be a huge waste of time. When set foot on firm ground, every cell of his body was invaded by pure, raw panic. And under circumstances of panic, one couldn’t take good decisions, hence why Chenle had climbed up the cliff without minding his security, trusting his own determination and his short training. The other option would have implied looking for a place in which the cliff was smoother, ideally with a slope that wasn’t mortal, but Chenle had looked around and had seen an interminable, exasperating cliff.

By the time he had reached the clifftop, his palms were severely bleeding, skin torn and a bit of bone peeking through. It didn’t matter. A bomb had exploded on his stomach before, so a few bruises were meaningless while he had Jisung in mind. There were worse things than his bruises: the fear of not finding Jisung, not finding anyone else, the exhaustion, the way the plane had been scattered all the way down and the terrible noise of the crash. It had been so loud, so terrifying, that Chenle had heard it even if it had happened kilometers away. He had closed his eyes in that moment, and only opened them to trail after Jisung.

They could be dead. Chenle knew that.

Jisung could be dead, too, because he was terrible at parachuting and this landscape was merciless. Yet Chenle pushed that thought to the back of his head, because it was irrational: if Jisung was dead, he would have felt it. It was a thought that otherwise would paralyze him, and Chenle couldn’t afford being swallowed by his emotions.

Chenle ran without direction, but his feet knew the purpose of running. The area Jisung could have fallen into was wide, since Chenle had calculated an approximated zone according to the speed and the direction Jisung was flying with the last time Chenle had seen him. It was at least three kilometers away from the cliff, so Chenle sprinted without hesitation, because in moments like this one time was precious and vital. He hadn’t forgotten the planes chasing them. He hadn’t forgotten that they could find Jisung before Chenle did.

The only problem was that it was easy to get lost in the woods, and even though Chenle had drawn the map in his head, his eyes faced trees and more trees, tall vegetation without paths. As soon as he noticed that he was faltering, that he couldn’t trust his mind to the last detail, Chenle changed his strategy: he screamed. If Jisung heard him, he would find the way to make himself noticeable – even if he couldn’t speak for any reason. They still had their weapons on him, just like Chenle was carrying two guns in his ankles and an electric shotgun on his back.

Screaming in the middle of the forest wasn’t the brightest idea, but when Chenle heard his own name on someone else’s lips, he was certain that it wasn’t a hallucination.

“Jisung!” Chenle shouted, louder, harder, feeling his throat rip out. He forced himself not to go insane in that exact moment, because screaming and giving into his feelings was terribly tempting. “Jisung!”

And Jisung screamed back. It amazed Chenle how Jisung had called him by his name right away, since not even Chenle could distinguish Jisung’s voice until then, when he was close enough to assure it was him. It couldn’t be a trap. Jisung would never lead him into a trap.

The irony was that Jisung was, indeed, trapped. And Chenle had been wrong for supposing that finding him would be the ending of his suffering: Jisung’s parachute had entangled in one of the highest oak trees. Given his luck, he had winded up hanging off like a puppet, with two sad options: liberating himself and confronting a fall of twenty meters, or stay there and rot.

Chenle’s heart froze, and then started beating so fast that he only could hear his own heartbeats.

“Don’t move!” he shouted at Jisung, though the last thing Jisung would do was move.

Both of them had to raise their voices to speak to each other, but Chenle caught all the emotions – horror, resignation, confusion – in Jisung’s voice when he said, “I’m fucked.”

Chenle wasn’t going to allow him to think that.

“I will climb up, yeah?” He didn’t need an answer, because Jisung could have begged a hundred times and Chenle would have ignored him. Pressing his hands together to suffocate the pain of his palms, aware that climbing the tree was going to be a nightmare, Chenle asked, “Is the parachute broken or torn? Are you safe?”

That wasn’t the question. The question was: if I move the tree, will your parachute rip and push you to your death? Jisung wasn’t stupid. He was scared for a good reason, and so was Chenle.

“I think it’s fine,” Jisung replied, looking down at Chenle. His voice sounded strained, however, like it wasn’t the complete truth. They didn’t have many possibilities, so Chenle nodded and stepped closer to the tree. Only then, Jisung bawled, “Wait! In case I don’t make it down safely-”

Chenle felt a shiver of rage. “Shut the fuck up.”

“It’s important. Life or death important!” Jisung insisted.

Just so that Jisung didn’t shake out of desperation, Chenle decided to listen to him.

“What?” Chenle observed him, the way he was clutching his stomach, afraid that it would give in. Chenle needed him better than this, braver, even if they had to pretend for that. “I swear to god, if you’re telling me you love me-”

Much to his surprise, Jisung laughed. It was a short laugh, but it was sincere, gurgling with joy. When it died down, Chenle felt emptier than before.

“Donghyuck was here,” Jisung revealed then, not missing a beat, since they didn’t have time. “He stood there for a whole minute while I asked for help, and I didn’t know… I don’t know what the fuck was going on with him. He smiled at me and then left, even though I was screaming and-”

Chenle understood why Jisung was telling him this in this moment. This wasn’t about them, but about the whole party’s safety. Still, Chenle took time to calm himself down, because he was so angry – so angry at the thought of Jisung being abandoned, shouting at the certainty of death.

“I’m going to get you down,” Chenle announced then.

Without considering how hard it would be to climb an oak tree, Chenle ran for momentum and jumped on the trunk. He couldn’t hold back the gasp when his palms entered in contact with the surface, but he set his mind on Jisung and pulled up, his blood soaking the trunk. Climbing a tree wasn’t as scary as a cliff, but there were less protuberances and it required more balance and strength. By the time Chenle reached the first branch, he was worn out, and he gripped on the branch like he depended on it to live.

The good part was that Jisung was hanging from one of the middle branches, and once Chenle had secured himself on the first one, it was a matter of choosing the right branch – the ones that weren’t going to fracture and let him fall. Chenle was afraid that Jisung’s branch was too unstable for him to stand on it, but when he arrived at the right spot, he felt relieved to find out that no, Jisung’s branch wasn’t thin or old.

“How are you doing?” Chenle asked Jisung, and Jisung held his thumb up, indicating that everything was fine.

That was an overstatement. From that perspective, Chenle could comprehend the delicacy of the situation. Jisung looked so small compared to the distance between the branch and the ground, so fragile and easy to break. And he _was_. They were nothing without their shields and their weapons, just mere humans whose lives could be ended in the split of a second; a bad hit, a bad fall, a bad use of their meds, and they would be dead.

Chenle slid over the branch, slow, until he could touch the parachute. Jisung was too far away to just grab his hand and lift him, which meant that Chenle had to pull up the parachute first.

“Jisung, I need you to grab another part of the parachute with one of your hands,” Chenle ordered him. In response, Jisung gave him a questioning glance, lost, and Chenle clarified, “I know your harness is ripped in your abdomen.”

Even from that distance, Chenle could hear Jisung curse under his breath. Chenle wasn’t going to blame him for the lie, for he was aware that Jisung intended not to alarm him, but it had been a lie that could have led Chenle to see him crash against the ground.

Jisung obeyed him, flinging his arm upwards and gripping a bunch of suspension lines. “Do it,” he said, voice trembling.

It wasn’t easy for Chenle, though Jisung was light. The suspension lines sunk in his wounds, cut deeper in his skin, and he had to make a double effort not to moan out loud. Jisung was in complete silence, perhaps paralyzed by fear, perhaps to avoid telling Chenle that his harness was tearing apart faster. Chenle didn’t want to know, anyhow, because there wasn’t any solution for that.

“You’re close,” Chenle breathed out, his feet propped against the branch for more support. “When you’re close enough, try to-”

Chenle didn’t even finish the sentence; Jisung had understood, throwing the hand of his stomach up in an attempt to hook the branch. It was too risky, too risky to have a good ending; Jisung’s harness cracked apart right away with a terrible noise. Both of them screamed, Chenle pushing the suspension lines further up. That worsened it, Jisung’s harness opened faster, and Chenle had to push himself down on the branch, looking for Jisung’s free, failing hand.

His wounds didn’t hurt anymore. Jisung’s palm pressed against his, his fingers encircling his whole hand in desperation, and Chenle just felt the warmth, the pulse of his partner’s life against his veins.

Ten always told Chenle that there wasn’t any happiness without suffering, and now Chenle got the gist of such dark statement. The contrast between Jisung falling and Jisung thrown over the branch, safe and sound, insufflated a wave of relief and happiness into Chenle. Jisung wasn’t going to die today, and not in front of Chenle’s eyes.

Jisung was shaking while Chenle helped him to change his position over the branch, his pupils large because of the amount of adrenaline. That didn’t prevent Jisung from catching sight of the blood in Chenle’s hands, and Chenle had to hold him by the waist because he nearly jumped on him, as though Chenle’s wounds were more important than the fact that he had been about to die, that they were still on the branch of a fifty meters tall oak.

“What the fuck?” Jisung panted, forcing Chenle to turn his palms up.

Chenle let out a hoarse laugh. “I had a rough trip,” he joked.

Jisung stared at him with glassy eyes, an intensity that shut Chenle up in the split of a second. He tried to open his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the next thing he knew was that Jisung was cupping his face, gaze travelling down to his lips. Chenle wished that he could move, that he could tell Jisung not to do this – that he wasn’t sure to be ready, not because it was too soon, but because he had pondered about it so much, for so long, that the fantasy in his head was a monster he had now to face.

Yet Chenle had known, that sooner or later, this would happen. That Jisung would hold him this way, in a way that no one had ever hold him before – with tenderness, with care – and that he would leave a sweet kiss on his lips. Chenle had imagined, however, that he would respond without hesitation, not that Jisung would have to kiss him again, laughing at his puzzlement. He had imagined that, when he kissed back, it would be a perfect, smooth kiss; but it was clumsy and slow, and Jisung got carried away a few times, making their teeth clash.

It was short, but it felt like an eternity. The sort of eternity one would cling onto, because Chenle caressed Jisung’s nape, and he felt himself through Jisung’s senses, as though he was Jisung himself. He felt his own fingers, the touch of the blood and the way Jisung’s heart was swelling up in his chest, his difficulty to breathe. It was odd, yet natural, and Chenle understood all of a sudden why partners became lovers.

There was something more fascinating than that: to break such an intimate connection, watch Jisung’s spit-slick lips when he pulled back, and though Chenle wasn’t able to feel Jisung so well anymore, he saw what he had done to him.

“That was nice. Like, really nice,” Jisung muttered, so low that Chenle would have sworn he was talking to himself.

It was ironical that Chenle was happy in this situation, but it was all about contrasts, wasn’t it?

Chenle breathed out, “It’s supposed to be that way with me.”

Jisung might kiss dozens of boys, dozens of people if he wished to, but it would never be the same experience. Not even close. In that aspect, soldiers like Youngho, Ten, Taeyong and Yuta were admirable; they were renouncing to so much by accepting a romantic relationship with someone that wasn’t their natural partner.

“I know you’re really hurt, but I need you to lead me down,” Jisung reminded him, shaking his head to snap back to reality. He dared to glance at the ground, tentative, and then changed positions to kneel on the branch. “I’m a disaster at this.”

Chenle sighed in resignation. Their problems weren’t over yet. They had done half of the job right, and they had to finish the rest. Inspecting the path he had chosen to climb up, Chenle traced the plan by considering Jisung’s skills as well. Jisung trusted him, would follow after him even if Chenle was making the wrong decision, so the weight was on Chenle’s side.

“Chenle,” Jisung said then, both serious and affected. His tone drifted Chenle’s attention from his plan, and he couldn’t help but stare at Jisung for longer than appropiate. On his knees, Jisung looked like the kid he was, and Chenle wasn’t used to seeing him that way. Chenle led him through their training, Jisung protected Chenle from people; not the other way around. “Donghyuck left me here to die.”

“I know.” Chenle scrambled to get up, consternation in his eyes. And then, gazing down at Jisung, he assured, “He will pay for it.”

 

 

 

  **֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

For a second, Yukhei thought he was in the infirmary’s bed again.

He was not. But it was the first time he had woken up feeling as empty as the day he had regained consciousness in the capsule, when Jungwoo’s absence was a hole through his chest.

The main similarity was that he was alone. It wasn’t Jungwoo who was gone, but Renjun, and the hole felt bigger – because he didn’t have Jungwoo yet, because Renjun had left him alone too. Before the crash, the last person Yukhei remembered was Renjun, and life was this funny sometimes, because Renjun had been the first person he had seen when he had woken up in the capsule. It was a cycle repeating itself.

Now Yukhei lied alone on the mud, dirt in his lungs and a headache that didn’t let him feel anything but his head. It was evident that Renjun had dragged him out of the plane and then disappeared to look for Jeno – always Jeno first, everyone else second. Just like he had tried to run into the pilot’s cabin instead of securing his life, fighting against Yukhei because he preferred to die with Jeno than live without him.

His effort hadn’t been in vain, because Jeno was alive too. He was the first person Yukhei saw, among smoke and tiny flames, inside one of the scattered pieces of the plane. And he wondered if this meant that in the future, Jeno would leave him as well. A cycle repeating itself.

Despite the pain, Yukhei’s body reacted to the danger by springing him up on his feet. Given Jeno’s position, he had walked past by Yukhei to reach that part of the plane, thus he had ignored an unconscious Yukhei in favor of something or someone else.

Jeno was bent over himself, trying to stand up and pressing all his weight against something – Yukhei couldn’t see it well. All the signs were pointing to terrible outcomes, and Yukhei ran as fast as possible, jumping inside while repressing the warnings his mind was sending: how much of a bad idea was to board on a broken plane, how much of a bad idea was to be at the zone at all.

From up close, Yukhei was able to tell that Jeno was hurt, and that the pain wasn’t coming only from his own body. Familiar with that sensation, Yukhei would have never missed out on it. It was still impressive that he had come out from a plane crash like this, with mild wounds on his body. Though he could have easily broken a bone, could not know yet because of the adrenaline.

Once inside, Yukhei realized that Jeno was trying to move a piece of furniture, pure aluminum, that blocked the way. Without his pain, Jeno would have pushed it away in the blink of an eye, but the pain prevented him from doing so, fingers clutching at the edges but body crumbling on the floor every time.

Jeno was on four when Yukhei reached him, and Yukhei didn’t hesitate to throw his hands around his abdomen to pick him up; it was a mistake, because Jeno shrieked, the sort of shriek that wasn’t out of surprise but out of pure torture.

“Jeno?” Yukhei’s voice was full of panic, and Jeno shrieked and shrieked, almost as if he didn’t want to listen to Yukhei. “Jeno, who-?”

It wasn’t a who. The numbers painted on the walls swirled Yukhei’s attention, and then everything clicked inside his head: Renjun’s absence, Jeno’s pain, his desperation to cross this zone of the plane.

Yukhei let go, Jeno dropped to the floor again, and without Yukhei’s arms around his body, he managed to mutter, “Twenty-three A.”

Yukhei didn’t need any more explanations.

“Move away,” Yukhei told him, and so Jeno did, crawling on the floor to give him enough space.

There was no time to evaluate the situation, thus Yukhei followed his instinct and kicked the aluminum forward instead of backward. It resisted at first, and Yukhei had to kick a few times to break the inertia; then, with the furniture wobbling over the floor, Yukhei grabbed the underside and levered. It fell forward at last, the furniture horizontal and making room between itself and the ceiling. Only when Yukhei released it, he felt the tears on his arm muscles.

Before Yukhei could turn around, Jeno was already climbing over the piece, jumping to the other side. Yukhei trailed behind, watching how Jeno opened the Regeneration section and dived into it. That was enough information for Yukhei; he wasn’t one of the best soldiers for no reason, and it wasn’t a physical matter either. His ability to deduce situations just from a couple of signs was what had built him as a soldier, and so, with Jeno grabbing the Regeneration kit and Renjun’s disappearance,  Yukhei figured out what he had to do next.

While Yukhei rummaged through all the drugs, Jeno ran back. Yukhei was aware that Renjun wouldn’t be able to work only with the regeneration tools, and as soon as Jeno faded around another broken piece of the plane, Yukhei sprinted behind him, now carrying what Renjun had probably forgotten to ask for. Or what he had known Jeno wouldn’t bring him.

Yukhei wasn’t the least surprised at the circumstances, yet he avoided looking at Jaemin’s stomach – there was too much blood, and Yukhei had to stay cold. Watching an enemy die was terrible, but watching a friend was unexplainable sensation. It wouldn’t be the first time, and yet, just like the first time, and the second, and the third – Yukhei felt like vomiting.

Renjun was opening the kit, Jeno trembling and moaning by his side, and glanced at Yukhei with a subtle hint of confusion, as though he didn’t expect Yukhei to wake up so soon. His stare recognized what Yukhei was carrying in his arms, and that confusion became relief; Renjun sent him a firm nod, giving him both permission and acceptance.

Jeno was useless, but Yukhei and Renjun worked faster together. Yukhei didn’t have any training in regeneration, but he had enough knowledge in venoms and drugs, so he filled two syringes with different drugs within a few seconds, holding them between his teeth and pulling.

“You know how to?” Renjun asked him, barely paying him any attention. Renjun had faith on him. It was just a question for protocol, to make sure that Yukhei wasn’t trying to take on a task he couldn’t carry.

Yukhei knelt between Renjun and Jeno and handed Renjun one of the syringes. Renjun was incredibly fast, lifted Jaemin’s wrist and poked in with scary precision; with the precision of a murderer rather than a nurse.

Jaemin’s arms twitched, a small whip travelling all over his body.

“What is this for?” Jeno breathed out, his eyebrows knitted together.

“So that he doesn’t feel any pain,” Renjun said, dry, short.

Yukhei felt his throat tighten. Renjun was such a good liar.

Holding his breath, Yukhei sunk the syringe in Jeno’s neck. It was awfully easy, for Jeno didn’t have enough time to process what had happened: he fell limp against Yukhei’s arms, eyes blank, and Yukhei held his weight with all the care in the world. He laid Jeno on his back, next to Jaemin, and with Jeno’s groans of pain gone, the silence was complete.

Yukhei wondered if Renjun would have been capable of doing this himself, or if he would have let Jaemin die just not to attack Jeno.

“Thank you.” Renjun stared at him; he hadn’t forgiven Yukhei for saving him, and that’s what his eyes told him. His gratitude was a consequence of Yukhei tranquilizing Jeno, because it would have been impossible to pull out the bar out of Jaemin while Jeno felt every single movement through him as well. Because Jeno would have known the exact second Jaemin was dead, and no one could work under that pressure. “I need twenty minutes. He’ll be dead or I’ll have finished.”

Renjun was dismissing him off. Yukhei didn’t have a place there anyway, didn’t wish to watch his friend being handled on the edge of death. Yet, instead of giving Yukhei time to leave, Renjun clasped the bar and pulled with a pant; the bar slipped through his fingers, still. Yukhei backtracked almost in panic, but he understood why Renjun couldn’t waste time. One second of difference could kill or save Jaemin.

Yukhei hurried up to throw Jeno’s body over his shoulder, grabbed a few disinfectants with trembling hands, and only when Renjun and Jaemin were out of sight, he placed Jeno back on the ground.

The most important promise he had made to himself, right before parting, was that he wouldn’t allow the guilt to eat his sanity. Except Chenle and Jisung, his friends were adults, soldiers that could take their own decisions and were conscious of the numerous ways of dying which they were going to encounter in such a mission. Still, Yukhei was depriving them of the protection of their army and pushing them into enemy territory. It was suicidal at best. And it made sense for Yukhei, because his life didn’t mean anything without Jungwoo, but it didn’t make any sense for the others.

It could make sense for Jeno very soon. And Yukhei was aware that Jeno wouldn’t survive that, because Jaemin had travelled along just because Jeno believed in this mission.

 

 

 

  **֍   Doyoung. Head Technologist. Base CK2Y3   ֍**

 

Doyoung had been inside an interrogatory room three times in his entire life.

The first one, during his training, when he was thirteen and six soldiers had pulled him out of bed, half naked. Physically and mentally vulnerable. Doyoung hadn’t known that it was a test, but that was the whole point: to believe that it was real. The soldiers had shot him questions about private issues, private locations, names and families and everything, _anything_ that hadn’t been supposed to leave Doyoung’s mouth.

And they hadn’t.

When one of the soldiers had cut his index finger, the pain hadn’t blurred Doyoung’s loyalty. Watching his finger on the table, bleeding and separated from the rest of his hand hadn’t affected Doyoung enough to betray his votes. It had been worth it. He had gotten his finger back in the end, though he had lost it at least a dozen times during other tests, and three times when he started working at the technology base.

Changbin’s death had brought him to the interrogatory room for the second time. And to everyone’s dismay, that hadn’t been a test. Changbin was dead, indirectly murdered by Doyoung, and the military’s security needed to determine if Doyoung had done it on purpose or if it had been an accident; and in case it was the latter, they had to check that Doyoung was still in the right state to lead experiments of that caliber.

He had dodged that one too.

And here came the third visit to the interrogation room. It was never the same room, and Doyoung was led into them with a blindfold over his eyes, but all of them looked exactly the same.

Doyoung wasn’t surprised that Mark had caused the third interrogatory. Experience had taught Doyoung not to give the internal investigation team any reason to doubt him, but Doyoung had been too lenient with Mark, and Mark couldn’t learn something that Doyoung hadn’t hammered into him. If Mark got into trouble, so did Doyoung; it was logical that they had pulled Doyoung into an interrogatory so soon, just hours after the emergency call. There could have been many reasons, but the truth was that Doyoung didn’t involve himself with anyone except Mark. It had to be Mark’s fault.

And when the interrogator hovered over him to scare him, her hair hidden under a bonnet and her eyes full of inexperience, Doyoung didn’t feel intimidated.

“A soldier informed us that Lee Mark, your pupil, visited the base in the first fifteen minutes of the emergency call. He claimed that he was under your orders,” she revealed. “Is that true?”

The interrogator was younger than him, but that wasn’t a reason to underestimate her. It was a reason for Doyoung to take risks though, which he could afford after playing the military’s games for so long.

The damn kid had run into the technology base like a headless chicken, Doyoung didn’t have any doubts about it. Telling the truth, one simple word, would condemn Mark.

“It is,” Doyoung lied. He raised his eyebrows, a forced gesture that he had to draw naturally enough not to come off as defying. “Is there any problem with it?”

“He’s under suspicion, as you may understand.” The woman didn’t seem to be fazed at Doyoung’s response, but that didn’t mean that Doyoung’s lie was believable. Doyoung was aware that they would believe whatever they wanted to, no matter if Doyoung contradicted them a hundred times. “He has tight ties with Na Jaemin, Lee Donghyuck and Lee Jeno. You and he are the only ones with unlimited access to the base.”

“The security in the base is maximum. Even if he had wanted to provide for them, it would have been impossible to do so without me noticing.” Doyoung smiled at her, and then at her team standing behind them. It was an obliging smile, which would perhaps make them suspect him, but it was the right move for Doyoung to make. “You’re free to check the inventory.”

Doyoung could have asked why they hadn’t invaded his base yet, but the answer was evident: they already knew every single item that was missing. Doyoung did, too. If he had bothered to inspect the base two days ago, he would have discovered Mark’s intentions right away. He was late to the game, and now a bunch of young soldiers were dead because of him – because of them, but the blame was ultimately on Doyoung.

“Why did you choose Lee Mark as your pupil?”

“Because he’s intelligent, loyal and strong-minded.” Doyoung saw the woman’s eyes flicker to the side, like asking for help from the team, and he took advantage of that to dominate the conversation. “He’s like me, and I wasn’t going to pass my knowledge to someone that didn’t deserve or understand it.”

The interrogator was too smart, and as Doyoung pressed his lips together, she had already found out what Doyoung was attempting in the split of a second. Therefore, when the next question floated in the air, Doyoung was prepared for it. “Your last pupil died, is that right?”

Doyoung nodded. “Yes.”

“If Lee Mark is guilty, he will be executed,” she stated. It wasn’t necessary for them to tell Doyoung, because he knew the law as well as they did; it was threat disguised as mere information. “If you cover up for him, you will be executed too.”

That was the crux of the problem. Doyoung was going to cover up for Mark, even though he was guilty, even though Doyoung had enough evidence to prove that Mark had given the renegades all the technology they carried with them, the access to a special plane, and that he had tried to communicate with them hours ago.

But Mark only had Doyoung, and Doyoung wasn’t going to put up with another dead pupil.

“Is that all?” he asked, as cold as his heart felt.

And, after all, Doyoung only had Mark.

 

 

 

   **֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Deep inside, Yukhei knew that Renjun wouldn’t obey him, not if Jaemin made it through, not if Jaemin didn’t make it through.

If Yukhei had had a clock, he would have known that Renjun appeared after twenty minutes. Exactly twenty minutes. Yukhei had managed to distract himself by curing Jeno’s wounds, though he’d had to strip him because there were wounds everywhere and his clothes were dirty. Still, Jeno had been too lucky, and a part of Yukhei couldn’t comprehend how Jeno was alive.

Life was such a tender thing. It was odd to remember that a few weeks ago he was chiding Jaemin for being jealous of Renjun, and now Renjun was hauling a bar out of his stomach, praying for him to stay alive – because Renjun hadn’t said it with words, but Yukhei could tell that in the middle of a forest, alone, it was hard to fix a mess of that caliber. Yukhei had seen Renjun pray before, yet they never talked about it, because soldiers didn’t pray, and Renjun wasn’t a soldier anymore.

There was blood scattered on Renjun’s clothes, on his face, on his hair, but that wasn’t proof of anything. His semblance wasn’t either. He ignored Yukhei at first, bending over Jeno to check the state of his wounds, to make sure Yukhei had done the job right.

Yukhei held his breath, not brave enough to ask, his knees dipping deeper in the mud. Only when Renjun deemed that Jeno had been taken care of properly, he glanced up at Yukhei and with a broken, quivering voice, he announced, “Jaemin isn’t dead yet.”

 _Yet_.

And, without missing a beat, Yukhei said, “We have to leave.”

Yukhei knew that it would make Renjun angry. So as Renjn shot him the most incredulous look possible, Yukhei didn’t recoil.

“You know I can’t,” Renjun said, voice soft but a challenging frown on his face. “If we move Jaemin, he will die. If his body rejects the regenerating cells, he will die.”

Yukhei closed his eyes. Patience was difficult to gather with Renjun in front of him, disposed to fight away every one of his arguments. Following Yukhei’s orders was against his code.

“They shot us down, Renjun,” Yukhei reminded him, as if any of them could forget it. When Yukhei opened his eyes again, Renjun was inspecting the sky, maybe wondering if they were about to catch a glimpse of the planes again. They were silent, always silent. “The moment they find where the plane crashed, they will bomb us.”

“I’m aware of that.” Renjun’s tone was firm, though his eyelids fluttered for a few seconds. The way he looked at the sky made Yukhei think that he’d prefer if the planes found them; it’d be easier that way. He wouldn’t have to face Jeno when he woke up, and he wouldn’t have to witness his pain while he cried for his partner. But then Renjun drifted his attention towards Yukhei, and the trace of weakness faded away like it had never existed. “Yukhei, this is what I do. I’m supposed to stay to save people, for Jaemin, even if that puts me on danger.”

That was what Yukhei feared to hear. A chain of death.

“I-”

The prohibition never left Yukhei’s mouth, because Renjun predicted his words, fire in his eyes, and spat at him, “He’s your friend too!”   _And he’s the opposite of your friend_ , Yukhei wanted to tell Renjun. Jaemin might have left Renjun behind if the soldier code required it – he might have left him behind even if it wasn’t necessary – but Renjun wasn’t a soldier. He refused to follow the soldier code. “We can’t abandon him. Jeno will never forgive us.”

“You only think about Jeno. What if Jaemin dies anyway?” Yukhei bit his own tongue until he tasted blood. However, he couldn’t prevent himself from talking, from attacking Renjun just like Renjun attacked him. _He’s your friend too_. “What if he dies and they bomb you and-”

Renjun’s hand landed so hard against his cheek that Yukhei couldn’t feel anything for several seconds. It wasn’t the pain what immobilized Yukhei: it was the shame, the realization that he deserved that, that Renjun hadn’t used violence in so long but he was using it now against _him_. And Renjun hadn’t hesitated, which taught Yukhei a lesson beyond the force he had used.

Then the pain reached Yukhei, a tingling, warm sensation expanding over his face. When Yukhei brought his hand up to his cheek, Jaemin’s blood tinted his fingers red.

“You’re not using your head,” Renjun told him, unregretful. Yukhei didn’t dare to stare at him, didn’t move a single muscle, because Renjun had more mental strength than he did. He had gone through worse, through worse than just killing people, and Yukhei couldn’t win against that. “I only think about Jeno? You only think about me, and I’m the last person you should think about. I’m a double renegade, you don’t need me except for what I’m doing now, and you have to _go on_.”

And Renjun wasn’t in this mission for him, anyhow. If Jeno had stayed behind, so would have Renjun. And if Renjun was determined to risk his life for Jaemin, as desperate and stupid his chances were, it was because Jeno loved Jaemin.

“Renjun,” Yukhei muttered.

“Get Jeno out of here and carry on. Find the others, go your own way, and we, or I, will catch up.”

At last, Yukhei flickered his gaze at him. There was a pitiful glint in Renjun’s eyes, because he had already taken the decision for the four of them: he was going to stay with Jaemin. Carrying Jaemin with them must have been a choice equal to death, and Renjun wasn’t disposed to take it. And both of them knew that if Jeno had a say, he’d stay too; that was the reason Renjun was telling Yukhei to leave as soon as possible.

“That’s insane,” Yukhei remarked.

Parting ways was insane, because everyone else was scattered in a giant forest and, even though four was already a low number of soldiers, forcing themselves into pairs was pure madness.

However, Yukhei could understand Renjun’s logic to some extent. The forest was thick, and the planes that had attacked them were specific of battles, therefore unable to track them under the dense vegetation. Hence why they hadn’t spotted the planes again: they were travelling back to the base. After that, the higher ups would have to agree to send a tracking party to finish them at all. It would take around two days, and that wasn’t enough time to cross the whole forest by foot and reach the city – that was going to take weeks – but maybe enough for Jaemin to walk on his own and put enough distance with the zone of the accident.

That was Renjun’s crazy plan: wait until Jaemin had recovered enough to be carried or to stand, and if he didn’t, face the consequences.

“Listen to me,” Renjun said, noticing his silence, his surrender. He stretched out for Yukhei’s hands, and though Renjun was covered in blood, Yukhei held him in return with as much strength. “The limits of the city are tightly guarded. You have to look for a guard in the walls. He has a scar that goes from his right eye to his Adam’s apple like a waning moon.” Renjun traced the scar over his own face, illustrating. The waning moon was painted in red over his skin. “His name is Taeil. He’s short, last time I saw him he was blond. When you find him, don’t say his name, don’t ever say his name. You must say you work for Xiaojun.”

Yukhei’s heart stopped beating for longer than it should have. Renjun had a way to enter the city. One that didn’t imply violence, but that it implied intelligence, and the party was too big for this plan to work. Renjun was assuming that the rest wouldn’t manage to get out of the forest.

“Who is Xiaojun?”

The ghost of a smile crossed Renjun’s expression, but it vanished so fast that Yukhei couldn’t interpret what it meant.

“And you can’t be the one that studies the perimeter,” Renjun continued, ignoring his question. He squeezed Yukhei’s hand, and as he smiled again, the gesture was sincere now, almost sweet. “Everyone knows you. I’ve grown up seeing your face plastered all over the city since I was twelve. So someone else has to find Taeil, ask for Xiaojun, and then the rest of you can reveal yourselves.”

Yukhei observed Jeno, unconscious, between them. It was the two of them carrying on, so Jeno would have to be the one who kneeled before a bunch of wall soldiers, risking that one of them decided not to listen to him. But Renjun was right: Yukhei had been the aim of their enemies for years, because there wasn’t anything more efficient than destroying the pillars of a squadron.

“Say you understand, Yukhei,” Renjun whispered, almost a plea.

Blinking at him in surprise, Yukhei replied, “I understand.”

“Don’t show your whole face, ever.” Renjun’s hand shook in his grip, but he relaxed one second later, breathing in. “They won’t kill you.”

“What do you mean they won’t kill me?”

“You’re too good. Too valuable.” Renjun casted his gaze down to Jeno, though it was evident to Yukhei that he wasn’t _looking_ at him. His mind was elsewhere, a place where Yukhei couldn’t reach until Renjun added in a mutter, “So is Jungwoo.”

All of a sudden, the blood in their hands felt slick and hot. Recent. No one had given Yukhei hope so clearly before, and that was what Yukhei needed the most right now: someone that reminded him why he was endangering his friends’ lives, why he shouldn’t lose sight of his objective.

Unlike the other soldiers, Renjun knew how their enemies thought, how they worked. He had been one of them – he was still one of them, because one could never renounce to it, just to compensate for their wrongdoings. It wasn’t the same to hear it from Renjun than hearing it from Jaemin, Jeno, Youngho or Ten.

Words vacillated on the tip of Yukhei’s tongue. Renjun knew that Yukhei wouldn’t get shot, at least not right away. He could suspect why Donghyuck was still alive, why they hadn’t even hold him as a hostage. But Yukhei couldn’t ask such a big question, and those words died on his lips.

Renjun jerked away, eyes shining with an emotion that Yukhei didn’t recognize, and said, “If I thought Jungwoo was dead, I wouldn’t be here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see what I did there? I didn't fix anything in 7k, just gave them more trouble  
> if I don't update in january, you all have permission to kick me
> 
>  
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)  
> 


	10. Morning bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shooting the deserters down had become a show in a matter of hours. No one remembered that Yukhei was their best soldier, that everyone used to love and admire him, that he was a boy that laughed loudly and cheered them up when they were crumbling down. No one remembered how many people Yukhei had murdered to protect them and their families either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, hello!! I'm trying to make an update schedule for the fic, since this is going to be long and otherwise it will take me two years to finish it lol.  
> So please, considering how much you can read per month, vote on this [poll](https://twitter.com/renjucas/status/1092214363350593536)  
> Second of all, I said I'd update in january and I'm three days late, you all can shoot me.
> 
> And at last, this is the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sS9tTCzKigU)  
> for the chapter, let's go.

 

**֍   Mark. Technologist apprentice. Base CK2Y3   ֍**

 

The first thing Mark learned in the army was that, no matter how serious the job was, human curiosity was always stronger.

Even when their friends, their partners, those boys they had spent half of their lives with were the victims of a mission, the sense of destruction thrived over affection. So it wasn’t a surprise that, as Mark entered into one of the common rooms for the juniors, he found a bunch of soldiers attentively watching the News’ screens.

Shooting the deserters down had become a show in a matter of hours. No one remembered that Yukhei was their best soldier, that everyone used to love and admire him, that he was a boy that laughed loudly and cheered them up when they were crumbling down. No one remembered how many people Yukhei had murdered to protect them and their families either. Yukhei had been the pillar of every single unit, a symbol, the most important soldier, and now he was dirt in their past.

The power of a screen that could delete someone’s past so easily, and transform them into a monster just because they wanted their soulmate back, was terrifying. It was terrifying that even these soldiers, who had lived with Yukhei in the front row, could believe all those lies. A morbid story was pure music for humans. They believed and loved it and repeated it like parrots.

Traitors, a conspiracy against the army, spies. Mark sat down in the back of the common room, his knees trembling. It was a relief to go unnoticed, since all the juniors were too focused to pay any attention to him, but sooner or later people would ask Mark questions too. How could he not tell that his best friends were going to desert? Did he help? Did he hate them now, as he had to? He _had_ to hate them. The army first, personal feelings second.

Mark had always been alone until Jaemin appeared, and everyone was aware of that. He wasn’t ready to cope with a wave of soldiers trying to get information out of him in an attempt to gain their own medals. Any word could turn into a clue about the conspiracy, a clue that would likely get them promoted, and Mark wasn’t disposed to have his head off for someone else’s promotion.

“Why would he do this?” a boy asked his friend, leaning back on the couch with a sigh. Between his legs, there was a girl, resting the back of her head on his knees. Probably his partner. “I can understand the rest, but Wong Yukhei?”

The army hadn’t even dared to mention that Yukhei had plotted this for Jungwoo. An act of love was too dangerous, and it could be seen as romantic and praiseworthy. It was much more effective to paint them as the enemy.

“Kim Jungwoo may be dead, right?” the girl replied. She sounded slightly older to Mark, because young soldiers didn’t talk about death so openly, and because she hadn’t bought the whole story they were being told. “People go crazy when their soulmates die, so maybe Yukhei did. He might have blamed us for Jungwoo’s death, and then wanted to take revenge on us.”

“And his friends followed?” The boy laughed, as if it was the stupidest decision in the world. No one would join the party of a madman. But they had done it, Mark included. Perhaps all of them held a small madman within. “The nurse too?”

Mark felt his own vomit travel up his throat. They couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t. Their bodies would have been brought back for display, to teach a lesson, to prove that betraying your votes wasn’t worth it. So Mark handled two options: there weren’t any bodies to collect because they were still alive, or because they were pure ashes by then.

“Apparently the nurse was involved with Lee Jeno.” A different soldier, no older than fourteen, answered from the other side of the room. “No wonder he was always in the infirmary.”

Whatever it was, the official announcements were full of lies. Mark needed real proof beyond a video of them shooting a plane down. It could be any plane, or an old video, or a real life simulation. The party could still be flying, maybe trying to contact him, and Mark had given up on them too soon.

Mark knew that he was being watched. There was a guard by his room all the time, and at least other five soldiers that followed him around to detect any suspicious move of his. A bad strategy, in Mark’s opinion, since they weren’t attempting to be discreet. It would have been smarter to make Mark believe that he wasn’t a suspect, and then perhaps he would have made the big mistake of doing something too revealing, like contacting the plane or having another dubious conversation with Yuta. Maybe crying would have been enough of a proof.

Despite his lack of freedom, Mark couldn’t stay here, motionless, useless. He had to help and fix his own mistakes, but he was alone, under a constant watch, and he couldn’t move a finger without Doyoung’s help. Doyoung was angry at him and his orders had been clear: eat, sleep, eat, sleep. Nothing else. He had forbidden Mark to talk to anyone, to hang out with anyone and to do any activity that wasn’t mundane; even taking a walk was risky.

Mark bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. The guard following him during the morning had walked into the common room, even though he wasn’t a junior, even though he shouldn’t have been there. Mark stared at him, and the guard stared back. Just at first. Mark’s glare was too intimidating, full of pain, conviction and desperation. It wasn’t a good combination.

Mark had seen this man before. He had inquisitive black eyes, but soft features and, when Mark had seen him laugh with his friends, he had discovered he had child-like smile. And like every other man there, he was an unloved kid within. His name was on the tip of his tongue, but Mark couldn’t remember it, and his eyes travelled down his chest to find the guard’s identification.

Guanheng. Mark was going to need him.

 

 

 

 

**֍   Ten. Land forces. Unit № 11   ֍**

 

Ten’s only regret was that, while trying to keep each other as close as possible, they had branched off from the plane more than they ever should have. Ten had touched ground before Youngho could, and though Youngho’s precision had been flawless, his sense of caution hadn’t.

However, when Ten ran to him, laid out on the ground, he was welcomed by a ridiculous smile on Youngho’s lips. It wasn’t a moment to laugh, to joke, and exactly because of that Youngho was smiling. Ten needed him to brush his nervousness off, because they couldn’t take logical decisions with the adrenaline running through their veins.

“Did you hit your head?” Ten asked, feigning annoyance. Youngho didn’t feel offended at the accusation, yet he was still unable to move, too hurt to set himself into motion right away. Ten hovered over him and unclasped his harness, ignoring the groan of pain that left Youngho’s mouth. “So many years and you can’t land without hurting yourself yet.”

“We should have jumped together,” Youngho protested.

It wasn’t a crazy idea, but when Ten was adjusting his own parachute, he reasoned that they’d be an easier target if they jumped in tandem. One shot, two persons. There was always a chance of dying, and Ten didn’t want to die together; he preferred dying alone and allowing Youngho to live.

“I can’t babysit you all the time,” Ten replied instead. Youngho laughed at the joke, but he ended up coughing. Ten set the palm of his hand against Youngho’s ribs, and then pressed down, first softly, then harder and harder as Youngho didn’t react. “Doesn’t hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.” Youngho shook his head. He stared up at Ten, and though he looked as fine as he affirmed to be, Ten could detect the dazzle in his eyes. He must have hit his head, indeed. “Nothing broken. It’s just- the numbness.”

Ten nodded, sitting up straight, and lent him a hand. Youngho had trouble to detach himself from the ground, but Ten trusted that he could measure his own pain without putting himself in danger, so he didn’t force him on his back.

“Enjoy the endorphins,” Ten teased him, snickering at Youngho’s expression. Youngho was too busy coping with the pain to care about Ten’s antics, so he didn’t retort as Ten rummaged through the pockets of his uniform and pulled out an Energizer. “Want some?”

Youngho grunted with disdain, “You gotta be kidding me.”

Ten shrugged, threw the Energizer into his mouth, and patted the rest of his pockets. He wasn’t looking for the Energizers, though he had purposely carried them with him all the time –  two years ago, during a simulation, he’d had to abandon because of the lack of food, and since then he had determined that he couldn’t go into any mission, fake or not, without at least one Energizer. Apart from that, he had loaded his pockets with other useful arms: a few milimetric guns, a pack of electrical shooters, and an Orientator.

The Orientator was what they needed now. It was a pill of the size of a thumb, and when Ten settled it on the ground and pushed it like it was a button, it rolled out into a screen of the size of his hand, but of nanometric thickness. Youngho peeked at it, curious, as Ten arranged the coordinates map.

“We’re going east,” he announced after five seconds, the four dots projecting the directions through a hologram.

“East?” Youngho muttered, confused. The fall had been quite hard, but not hard enough to make him forget the orders they were working under. “That’s not our destination.”

Ten sighed, aware that this would bring them to the brink of a fight. And he didn’t want to fight, but his only option was to be sincere with Youngho and defend what he believed in.

“It’s the zone the plane was twirling to,” Ten confessed. At that, Youngho’s expression hardened, understanding Ten’s intentions. “Aren’t we going to look for the others first?”

It was a tricky, emotional question that they weren’t supposed to bring up. However, Ten couldn’t win against the worry, against the fact that they were alone in an unknown forest and so were their friends, their family.

Youngho knew that he didn’t mean wrong, and perhaps because of that he managed to control his frustration, not to knock some sense into Ten by force. “You know what we discussed before parting,” he said, serious. The negative wasn’t a consequence of disagreeing with Ten, because Youngho loved their friends equally, but he was a man of plans. “If we got separated, we had to keep travelling.”

“Youngho.” Ten closed his eyes, tasting his partner’s name on his tongue. Youngho was stubborn, and more so when it came to endangering themselves without a reason. The only way out was to be crude, and that’s what Ten did, “All this doesn’t make any sense if the rest is dead.”

It was obvious, by Youngho’s lack of reaction, that he wasn’t even considering that possibility. But it was inevitable to do so: they had been the last ones to jump off the plane, and seconds later they had heard the plane crash, like a bomb expanding all over the forest. Whoever was in the plane by then didn’t have enough time to protect themselves.

“All this doesn’t make any sense if we give up,” was Youngho’s argument.

“Are you going into an enemy country without proper weapons?” Ten spat back, losing his patience by the second. They couldn’t follow the original plan, the two of them, like two blind birds flying right into a window. “How long will we last? We’re weeks away from the limiting city! We don’t have food! Who said this forest has enough animals to hunt? Who said we won’t eat a venomous animal _if_ we manage to kill one? _And_ we don’t have medicines.”

Youngho pressed his lips together, looking away. Ten didn’t give up, stared at him in desperation, as to find any hint that would give him hope. Youngho held the power to decide, because if they didn’t come to a safe conclusion, the neutral choice was to stick to Yukhei’s plan. Perhaps Youngho was afraid that, if their friends were alive, all of them would do what they had agreed to, and he and Ten would be the only ones fucking up.

“And if they’re dead, then what?” Youngho asked in a whisper, at last, still avoiding Ten’s gaze.

Then it’d be over. They wouldn’t have a home to go back to, they wouldn’t be able to walk forward, unless they took the risk of volunteering for the other side – conscious that they could get killed anyway, or tortured, or used as pawns and not soldiers.

But Ten didn’t want to ponder about that, not until they were sinking in such disaster.

“We’ll decide if that happens.” Youngho let out a sarcastic laugh at that, and Ten had to count to three not to snap. His ideas sounded stupid, childish, yet Ten firmly believed in them. “I’ll be responsible for it, Youngho. If there’s a single survivor, even if it’s only one, I want to find them.”

That touched the right spot within Youngho, which was dangerous, but also a relief. Ten couldn’t argue with the soldier, but he could convince his partner, his boyfriend, and the boy that loved his friends over anyone else. Youngho looked at him, and then he didn’t have to answer anymore; Ten slid on his knees, reaching out for him, and Youngho embraced him in his arms.

This was what they should have done, before talking, before anything. A hug was enough for Youngho to comprehend why this was so important for Ten, why they had to stroll to the east even if it was counterproductive in the end. It was about hope.

“Time to be united, isn’t it?” Youngho muttered, clutching Ten’s head against his chest. Ten nuzzled, and the moment he was in Youngho’s arms, reality crashed on him. They had gotten involved into this to protect the party, but once they had been shot down, this finally looked like the bad idea that it was. “Not to fight.”

Sometimes, only sometimes, Youngho listened to his words.

 

 

 

 

**֍  Taeyong. Land forces. Captain № 5  ֍**

 

Taeyong sent the notification before midnight, as soon as he finished his duties.

The night was deep, but through his room’s window, he could see how the security around all the military dorms had quadrupled. It was an useless tactic. The plane was down, so the renegades would be unable to return, and whether they duplicated the reinforcements or not, no one else would be capable of escaping. The big concern was the internal investigation, both for the army and for Taeyong on a personal level.

Yuta had been interrogated that evening, and although Taeyong had tried to be present behind the one-way mirror, he hadn’t been allowed to. After all, Yuta’s unit was under his supervision, and so were all the units of the deserters – except Renjun, whose job was under the care of military doctors – yet that had been more of a reason to set Taeyong aside.

However, he had still received the results of the interrogation. He couldn’t know Yuta’s answers, not even the questions, not even the extent of the charges he was facing, but he was responsible of informing Yuta of the outcome. He should have done it during work hours, since it was his duty, but he had waited until now for a reason: because calling Yuta at this time of the night would be seen as a personal encounter, and because Taeyong wasn’t an idiot, and was perfectly conscious of the numerous spy devices in his office.

Yuta could have rejected the call, but he didn’t. Judging his expression when Taeyong welcomed him into the room, he didn’t suspect that he wasn’t here to merely spend some time together.

And he needed that time together. Taeyong hadn’t seen him this physically weak in a long time: the dark circles, the sadness in his eyes, the surrender, the fact that he wasn’t wearing his soldier bag over his clothes; the way he glanced at Taeyong, as if he knew that it’d be over between them, sooner or later, as if Taeyong had never loved him.

They didn’t speak at first. Yuta entered, took off his shoes, and walked over to the bed. Sometimes they didn’t need to speak, anyhow. And in times like these, speaking too much would be detrimental, even an excuse to accuse them.

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong said, trailing after him. Yuta lied on the bed, becoming a ball on his side as Taeyong sat on the edge, and sighed when Taeyong reached out to caress his face. It was his first moment of peace of the day. For Taeyong too. So, when Yuta clung onto his hand, pressing it harder on his own cheek, it was heartbreaking for Taeyong to announce, “You’re suspended.”

Yuta should have seen it coming. Taeyong had already warned him, but the glance he dedicated him, as if the whole world was crumbling down, Yuta had kept his hope intact. Yuta was a dreamer, one of the reasons Taeyong had fallen in love with him; that small, yet blinding light in all this darkness.

“No,” Yuta grunted, his jaw hardening under Taeyong’s touch. Taeyong would always blame himself that, after letting Yuta into his life, he had managed to put his light out. “No. This can’t be happening.”

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong said, since that was all he could do. And he was sincere. Yuta might have been reckless for helping them, and he’d have to live with the guilt of their deaths, but he didn’t deserve to be pushed away from his position. “I’m really sorry.”

There were many ways in which Yuta could react, and against all odds, he chose the last one Taeyong had imagined. He slipped to the edge of the bed, determination in his expression, completely void of sadness. He held Taeyong’s hand in his grip, giving it a squeeze that confused Taeyong further – because Yuta was consoling _him_ – and looked into his eyes as if Taeyong would understand him without words.

“It’s dangerous. This isn’t about me, okay? The Cyber unit needs me,” he explained, firm rather than frustrated. His eyebrows twitched into a frown. “Didn’t you inform them about what I told you?”

“I did. Officially,” Taeyong remarked. Perhaps he took too much time, because he had doubts about the issue himself. He shouldn’t have hesitated, but Taeyong wasn’t perfect, and when Yuta had warned him, Taeyong hadn’t processed the information with enough professionalism. In his head it had been his _boyfriend_ raving, not a soldier informing of a possible, very real danger. “They think it’s a coincidence.”

That didn’t sit well with Yuta, who shook his head in disbelief.

“A coincidence,” he repeated, tasting the word with bitterness. “A Cyber soldier says there is a foreign identity implementing changes in our system and they think it’s a coincidence? But there is a hole in the simulation and they suspend me?”

Both of them knew that there wasn’t any solution to that. Taeyong could give to the threat the importance it deserved, but if he got caught following the advice of a soldier that was temporally suspended – not a mere suspension, but a suspension for treachery – he would go down with Yuta.

And this should have alerted Taeyong’s senses, for they had their hands and feet tied before a clear danger, but it was complicated to care in this situation. Finding out if their friends and their juniors were alive was, somehow, more important than securing their own lives. Keeping Mark alive was a priority as well.

“Yuta,” Taeyong called him. And this time, when he spoke, his tone revealed everything Yuta needed to know. Yuta could detect any change, any detail in his voice, and he understood now that Taeyong wasn’t reprimanding him for his mistakes. Yuta gazed at him with a hope that it had been missing for a long time. “You can’t protect us now, not while you’re a suspect, and we’ll have to deal with the consequences that it has.”

Taeyong would stand by his side, even if that meant losing his position in the army, even if that meant getting hanged with Yuta. Nothing would matter anymore, anyway, if Yuta was sentenced. Not to Taeyong.

Yuta’s lips stretched into a smile. It wasn’t sarcastic or acid, but pleased: he could understand what Taeyong was talking about. And Taeyong trusted him, knew that he was giving him a freedom that could potentially become suicidal. Yuta’s ideas weren’t the sanest, never had been. It was one of the reasons why he had been assigned, as a teen, to a Cyber unit instead of being sent to the battleground. Not because he wasn’t capable enough, or because he was more skilled at Cyberinformation, but because Yuta was disposed carry out any mad plan if he deemed it right.

“It’s absurd,” Yuta lied, eyes travelling up and focusing on the ceiling.

It was a trick. His mouth told a story, his eyes told a tale. Taeyong glanced up as well, and there it was, on the ceiling: a little shining spot, glinting like the farthest star behind a cloud of contamination, capturing every one of their words. It was so small that it could have been glitter, and Taeyong would have never guessed it.

Taeyong had assumed that the army wouldn’t investigate him on a personal level, but he was wrong.

“Protect yourself.” Taeyong set his attention on Yuta, only on him, and emphasized, “Protect _him_.”

Yuta’s laugh bloomed in the silence of the room. Taeyong didn’t remember the last time he had heard him laugh, but it acted on him like a supernatural force. Yuta looked so tired, so unloved, like the depiction of his own ghost, but his laughter still was the most beautiful sound in the world. In a matter of milliseconds, Taeyong was on Yuta, pushing him on the bed, and promising to himself that if the army wanted to hear them, they were _going to_. All of it.

 

 

 

 

  **֍   Ten. Land forces. Unit № 11   ֍**

 

Jung Eunbi was the seven hundred and twenty-seventh corpse Youngho had seen in his entire life.

And, when a soldier had counted every single corpse he had come in contact with, a simple glance enough to distinguish death from life. Youngho had caught glimpse of the body from ten meters away: a pair of legs peeking behind the trunk of an oak, feet pointing to opposite directions.

Ten, who wasn’t so well-versed with death, sprinted to the body. Youngho didn’t. He took his own time to catch up with Ten, but by the time he walked around the tree, Ten was chanting a trail of terrifying, nonsensical words. Ten could beg all he wished, because that wasn’t going to bring anyone from death.

Youngho recognized Eunbi’s short hair right away, her usually red lips almost gray, and had no idea how to feel. It could have been Yerin, or an unknown dead girl in the middle of this forest that no one ever explored, yet somehow Youngho had suffered a hunch over Eunbi. The position of her body, the lack of movement was enough of a proof for Youngho to know that it was too late, even for her brain.

For Ten’s sake, however, Youngho kneeled next to Eunbi and looked for any sign of life, even the last pulse remaining in her before death. There was nothing. But she was still warm, which indicated that she hadn’t been dead for long.

When he looked up at Ten, at Ten’s tears, Youngho was aware that he would never convince his partner. Ten returned the gaze for two seconds, predicted what was crossing Youngho’s mind, and spiraled into a fit of rage.

“Don’t say it,” Ten challenged him, sharp, defensive. His chest inflated, though Youngho wasn’t sure if it was out of pride or sadness. “Don’t even think about it.”

They didn’t have time for Ten to surf through a denial phase. For that same reason, making him be rational so that they could agree on this would hurt him; Youngho wouldn’t hurt him so much when they soon could be facing the worst possible outcome.

“Ten,” Youngho punctuated, accumulating all his patience in one word. “She is _dead_.”

Eunbi was dead, but she hadn’t died in the fall. Her harness was nowhere to seen, less was her parachute, and when Youngho leaned over her again, he discovered what had killed her. Right across her heart there was an ice dagger, slowly melting inside. Only the hilt protruded, but the layer of ice around the wound evidenced that it was an ice dagger. They could be used only once, because even if they carried a temperature stability system, they were designed to melt after being in contact with human flesh.

Youngho glared at Ten, waving to the dagger, and he swore that Ten could have hit him in that exact moment. “You said it yourself hours ago! Time to be united, so don’t you _dare_ ,” Ten insisted.

Ten couldn’t bring himself to deny the truth. Thus, he didn’t want to listen to the truth either, because it was easier to keep it like a little secret that wouldn’t be real if they didn’t speak about it.

Youngho stood up, head spinning. They were aware that their plan was rushed and dangerous, but it was a joke that everything was going wrong. Eunbi wasn’t part of their party, was forcefully kidnapped, and her death would weigh on them forever. All of them were disposed to die for Jungwoo, but Eunbi wasn’t.

Ten pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, eyes closed tight. Youngho was able to tell that he was trying to remember the protocol, though the tornado of emotions was too intense to allow him to. The protocol was useless, however. They had one dead soldier, and apart from them, there was someone that felt her death right away.

“If Yerin finds us, she’s going to kill us,” Youngho whispered.

Yerin had never been a bad person, but just like any other soldier, she would kill for her partner. Even without the Connection, Youngho would murder anyone that hurt Ten, no matter if Ten was already gone and extinguishing another life wouldn’t fix it. And, after all, Eunbi’s death was their fault, and Yerin had the right to blame them.

“We have to revise the perimeter,” Ten concluded, finally detaching his palm from his face. “She might be dead too.”

That was the first logical statement Ten had said in the last hours. What was clear, however, is that if Yerin was alive, she hadn’t witnessed Eunbi’s death, for she would have never abandoned her corpse.

“Murdered, you mean.”

“Youngho, shut the fuck up.” Ten held his head high, avoided looking at Eunbi, and proceeded to use his commanding tone, “It has to be in less than one hour. You’ll do southeast and northeast, and I will do-”

“No,” Youngho cut in. Ten looked shocked for a second, but in an attempt to show that this wasn’t up to discussion, he spun on his heels to walk away. Youngho was faster, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled Ten back. Ten grunted and tried to shake him off, but Youngho didn’t release him. “We can, if you want to, but we’re not parting ways.”

Ten’s gaze remained defying, his black eyes glinting in the dim light of the evening. “There isn’t any murderer in this forest.”

But there was. And they knew who it was. Youngho wasn’t going to let Ten run into death for hoping like an incredulous child.

“That, we will see,” Youngho said, and dragged Ten closer. 

 

 

 

 

**֍   Jaemin. Air forces. Unit № 56   ֍**

 

Jeno was mad.

It was funny because, on a daily basis, Jeno was always mad at him. Every time Jaemin got into a fight, or every time he accepted Doyoung’s experiments, or when he refused to speak to Jeno because he had been spending all his time with Renjun. But as Jaemin became aware of his own consciousness, an odd dullness extending over his senses, he knew that for once Jeno wasn’t mad at him.

He was mad at Renjun.

Renjun was, on top of that, the last person Jaemin remembered. Renjun looking at him like he was saying goodbye. Renjun, Renjun, Renjun. Renjun holding his hand and Jaemin trusting him with his whole soul and hating himself for it. Perhaps Jaemin was already dead, and it was very deserving; for being an awful partner, for ruining his relationship with jealousy and trying to meddle when it was too late, for not being able to redirect his frustration properly – to Renjun, not to Jeno.

Sheltering himself in Renjun’s affection, in the way Renjun had hold his hand before he passed out was an awful feeling. Jaemin wished he could forget that, but the hands touching his face weren’t Jeno’s, the voice he heard in the distance, lulling him, wasn’t Jeno’s, and Jaemin had no option but to cling onto that anyhow. He had two links to life in that moment: his Connection with Jeno, full of rage, and Renjun’s soothing touch over his face.

“Don’t talk,” Renjun said, though Jaemin didn’t know if it was happening in real life or just in his head.

Jaemin couldn’t even open his mouth, and most of Renjun’s words turned into a mere pacifying sound. He understood, from time to time, random words; and then there were two voices, but the other person wasn’t Jeno either. Jaemin would have known it if his soulmate was close, and he didn’t understand why, if Jeno was alive, he wasn’t there.

Holding onto Renjun’s presence was both painful and alleviating, and it anchored Jaemin to reality like a nail. He had no one else, and the noises around him were becoming clearer, so was the feeling of the taut skin on his abdomen every time he inhaled. He could finally recognize the light that was passing through his eyelids and, calculating the time that had gone by, that meant he had been there at least for two days.

First was Renjun’s voice, then someone else’s, then Jaemin could make out their words. Renjun’s hand remained on his cheek, other light touches over his neck, his wrist, his abdomen. Jaemin was on and off, making an effort to regain his consciousness, yet whatever he had been drugged with, it was pretty strong to knock him out for a whole day.

“Is he fine?” the other person asked Renjun.

“Fine is a big word,” Renjun answered. His fingertips caressed over Jaemin’s eyelids, as if he knew that Jaemin was trying to open his eyes. Renjun was aware that Jaemin was listening to them, but perhaps ignored to what extent. “His system is accepting the new cells pretty well, no infections, no fever. His body is strong, no wonder Doyoung loves using him for experiments. But fine? I wouldn’t say so.”

The other person clicked his tongue, not with disapproval, but with amusement. “You aren’t just a nurse, aren’t you?”

Renjun didn’t answer right away, and Jaemin thought that he had either nodded or shook his head, until he confirmed, “I was in the last course of my medicine practices when I got recruited as a soldier. I was going to work for the army as a doctor, but they realized-”

A sigh escaped Renjun’s mouth, making him unable to continue. Jaemin felt it in his trembling fingers, for Renjun sighed with all his body.

“You were more useful in another area?” the other finished for him, interested.

“The only reason I wanted to work for the army was my brother. He was there. I wanted to be close to him, protect him. I was just a kid, even by the time I got recruited.” Jaemin’s throat tightened up, but his body was too lethargic to react. Jeno had never mentioned Renjun had a brother. Perhaps he didn’t know. “Our country has so many plants, so many drugs that it’s a whole career itself, and soldiers usually don’t get a good grasp of them.”

And all of a sudden, Jeno wasn’t mad anymore. Confusion whipped Jaemin for a few seconds, until he noticed that Jeno was reacting to Jaemin’s feelings, his Connection reactivating with full force. So far Jaemin could sense Jeno, but Jeno could barely sense him; with Renjun’s story Jaemin’s curiosity had grown so big that Jeno had perceived it through his Connection. And therefore, Jeno was curious too, all fury dissipating because Jaemin was okay and he wasn’t experiencing a negative emotion.

“You got recruited for your knowledge in drugs,” the other person pointed out. “To kill.”

Renjun hummed.

“I bet you’ve never heard this saying of ours,” the other continued, and it was then, when he laughed, that Jaemin identified him. It was _Kun_. “Doctors make the best killers.”

It could have been an insult, at least to someone that had deserted just not to murder anymore, but instead of feeling offended, Renjun laughed too. “I bet you’ve never heard this saying of ours,” he mimicked Kun, and then Jaemin felt his presence hover over him, as to shorten distances with Kun. “Space soldiers are just dreamers.”

Why was Kun there? He hadn’t been in the plane when Jaemin left the pilot’s cabin. And Jeno had been present while Jaemin was dying, but he wasn’t anymore. It had to be Renjun’s doing.

“I think both are right.”

Jaemin opened his eyes, but as soon as he did, his hearing was completely hindered. Renjun’s eyes were on him, a trace of panic in them. Jaemin saw his lips move, ordering something, and then he felt Kun jump beside him and the vibrations of his steps. Jaemin didn’t notice he had a Respiratory sheet over his nose and mouth until Renjun pulled it off, which made much harder for him to control his breathing; yet the air from the forest was much warmer, and his respiratory tract appreciated it.

“Can you breath? Talk?” Renjun asked, seemingly calm although his eyes revealed all the fear he was retaining.

It wasn’t easy for Jaemin to remember how to speak, and when he managed to connect his will to talk with his body, his voice came out with lamentable strength, “ _Yes_.”

A proud smile bloomed in Renjun’s face, his shoulders slumping down out of relief, and Jaemin observed him with a new feeling settling in his chest. Then, they didn’t say anything, merely looked at each other like they would forget each other’s face otherwise.

Jaemin had to ask Renjun so many questions, and none of them was appropriate. But he would, as soon as he was able to, because Jaemin had learned not to keep his doubts and his thoughts to himself.

“You should thank me for not letting you die and keeping your boyfriend for myself,” Renjun whispered, smile widening until Jaemin could see all his teeth. And it was funny, really. Because Jaemin would have expected him to do exactly that, and yet Renjun hadn’t, and on top of that, he had the nerve to throw it in front of him when Jaemin was half dead. Jaemin’s chest grumbled with laughter, but his vocal chords were too dry to make any sound. “Don’t laugh. Your wound is still open.”

Jaemin blinked a few times, adjusting to the excessive light of the forest. When Kun came back, Jaemin was tremendously amused at how he looked like he had chilled at home for days, not like he had deserted, jumped off a plane, and walked through an immense forest alone. Kun smiled at him too, handed Renjun a tiny black jar, and then petted his hair, moving it away from Jaemin’s forehead.

“Hey, little one,” Kun greeted him, sweet. His hands were warm, and it took Jaemin one second to feel Renjun’s hands on him too, applying a viscous substance along his neck. Jaemin needed all that physical contact to stay, and they knew it. “This was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it? You and Chenle are walking menaces.”

Jaemin was pretty sure that, after this, he was winning the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real question is what is mark going to do with mister hendery? *finger guns*  
> [renjucas](https://twitter.com/renjucas)  
> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)  
> 


	11. Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jeno’s breathing stabilized, Yukhei ran his fingers through Jeno's hair, the heel of his hand pressing on his forehead. Jeno was reticent of that gesture of affection, and his eyes flickered between Yukhei’s stare and his moves, but affection was what Jeno needed, and he succumbed to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some important things about this chapter
> 
> 1\. This chapter is highly nonlinear. And what does this mean?? It means that even though you're reading scene 1 and then scene 2, they might not be happening one after another. Or that they might be happening days later, or days before, with big lapses of time. It's not that important to the course of the story, but it's important in the sense that this is only one chapter, but it includes a long period of time.
> 
> 2\. this is the last chapter of what would be "part 1" of the story. Once you get to the ending of this chapter, you will understand why :) im sorry beforehand for /that/ lol. But I'm also excited to show you guys what this fic is really about!
> 
> [*song for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khYy8jkJOn4)   
> 

 

**֍   Yukhei. Land forces. Unit № 1   ֍**

 

Yukhei carried Jeno on his back for two whole days, and on the third day, Jeno attacked him.

Jeno had been conscious since the second day, regaining conscience in certain moments, and due to these brief moments, Yukhei had been able to predict Jeno’s reaction. Jeno had mumbled words about leaving Jaemin behind, about Jaemin dying; when it came to Renjun, he had only said his name, once and again, as if that blaming him could change the past. Even though Jeno had been too drugged to move by himself, to hold a conversation even, his mind hadn’t been as blurred.

Whatever was happening with Jaemin, Jeno knew. Yukhei had deemed it an advantage in the beginning, because Jeno was the only connection he would have with Renjun and Jaemin, yet he had forgotten that Jeno would want to run back to them – just like Yukhei was on a suicide mission to reunite with his own soulmate. That Connection was, somehow, a disadvantage too, for Jeno would know if Jaemin was in pain, if he was alive, and in both cases he wouldn’t want to continue without him.

On the third day, after Yukhei had set Jeno up to sleep, it wasn’t shocking that Jeno rolled over the ground, dry leaves cracking under his weight, and punched Yukhei.

That was a first for Yukhei, however, because Jeno had never laid a hand on him outside of training hours, unlike the rest of his friends. It was normal to come with blows in the army, for they were kids trained to kill, full of adrenaline, pride and skewed instinct. But Jeno- Jeno had never touched anyone. He was the calm one in the bunch, the one that brought different types of danger; silence, revenge, the unpredictability of being in touch with his feelings. The most extreme violence Jeno had used on them was verbal, but he had never assault them on a physical level.

Everyone had a limit though, and in most cases, that limit was a soulmate. First it was a punch, Jeno’s fist landing so hard on Yukhei’s face that Yukhei was too disorientated to defend himself, and then it was a pair of hands around his throat. Yukhei had thirty seconds before getting knocked out, and if he had been up against a completely healthy Jeno, he wouldn’t have any chance to win over him. But Jeno’s strength was infallible due to the drugs, all intention but no technique, and Yukhei was able to bend his knees up his stomach for impulse. When he kicked Jeno in the crotch, not holding his force back, Jeno howled so loud that Yukhei feared that they would be heard by the wrong people.

Still, the wave of pain lasted enough for Yukhei to flip Jeno over, a dry sound when Jeno’s back hit the ground. Jeno writhed over himself, groaning, and Yukhei felt like laughing for a few seconds. Even with advanced technology, there wasn’t anything more effective than kicking someone in the balls to incapacitate them.

Yukhei shoved his hands on Jeno’s chest, making sure that he couldn’t move, and hissed, “Are you out of your mind?”

It was an illogical question. Of course he was: the last thing he had witnessed before drifting to unconsciousness was his soulmate dying; the first, that Yukhei was forcing him to abandon the rest of the team.

“Who gave you the right?” Jeno spat, suffering to pronounce every word. He shut his eyes tight, breathed so hard that he made Yukhei’s hands recess, “Who said you could drag me away from Jaemin?”

“I did what I had to do.” Not what he wanted to do, but what Renjun told him to do. Renjun was right in the end, but Yukhei wasn’t going to pit Jeno against him. Deep inside Jeno must have intuited that it was his boyfriend’s doing, anyhow, but maybe he had hoped that Yukhei wouldn’t listen to him. Yukhei insisted, “You’re useless there. You’re just a nuisance there.”

The last thing Yukhei expected was Jeno to laugh. And that’s what he did, but it was a bitter and resigned laugh, along a spiteful, “Fuck you.”

Yukhei gave him a bigger margin of time to calm down, but once Jeno had used his words against him, it meant that he was giving up on violence. Yukhei couldn't blame him for his temper, because he would have punched a thousand friends if he was in Jeno’s shoes. What Yukhei could do was to remind Jeno his role, so that he wouldn't forget that he accepted this mission with everything that it implied: he wasn't exempt from orders, and Yukhei was the leader.

As Jeno’s breathing stabilized, Yukhei ran his fingers through Jeno's hair, the heel of his hand pressing on his forehead. Jeno was reticent of that gesture of affection, and his eyes flickered between Yukhei’s stare and his moves, but affection was what Jeno needed, and he succumbed to it.

With his eyes closed, he listened to Yukhei say, “Renjun can take care of him, better than you ever will.”

There was no doubt about that, so Jeno didn’t fight. However, his silence brought a different realization: that Jeno wasn't worried about Jaemin being alone or about Renjun's skills. He was concerned over the fact that it was Jaemin and Renjun, the two of them, not any other combination.

“Jaemin isn’t going to hurt him,” Yukhei said, softer, his own hesitation preventing him from talking louder. Because, was Jaemin not to? Jealousy was a seed that grew fast, an invading species, and Jaemin wasn’t great at keeping it in line. “They have more in common than they think.”

Jeno drew a little twisted smile, full of scorn, aware that Yukhei was talking about _him_. Jeno and Jaemin had him in common, and he was who had split them.

“How do you know that?”

Yukhei knew though, but he couldn’t explain how. He remembered that talk he'd had with Jaemin weeks ago, while he moped over Jeno and Renjun, wondering how other soulmates were able to manage their open relationships, or to just keep a platonic relationship between soulmates. That Jaemin wasn't someone who would destroy his opponents. It was a Jaemin that wanted to understand, and wanted to be loved, and wanted to be free to love.

“Because he wouldn’t hurt someone you love,” Yukhei sentenced.

Because, no matter if Jaemin liked it or not, the Connection made him love Renjun too. Involuntarily and illogically, which was a funny concept, since that's how love was supposed to be.

The Connection had that small obstacule, the constant struggle of discerning which feelings belonged to whom, and yet Yukhei missed it.

 

 

 

 

**֍   Youngho. Land forces. Unit № 11   ֍**

 

When they found Yerin, Youngho lost all his will to contradict Ten.

Fighting would have been a waste of time. Yerin, hanging off a tree, hadn’t killed herself. Her hands were roped behind her back, and Youngho avoided looking at her as much as he could. Ten did too. Glancing at Yerin was way worse than staring at a corpse that had been stabbed, heart frozen and body warm.

Ten didn’t dare to approach her. He turned around, looked at the sky, a night without stars falling on them, and waited for Youngho to carry the protocol. Youngho did his best to distance himself from the situation, whilst his mind reeled and reeled like a tornado. Yerin and Eunbi were dead. And although Eunbi could have died in a confrontation, given the dagger, Yerin’s murder had been meticulous.

Whoever had killed her, they had subdued her first. Instead of ending her life right away, they had taken the time to tie her up, bring her up to the tree, and then dropped her. It was a spectacle, carefully prepared for someone to see.

That implied several dangers: the murderer was certain that someone was going to find her, and in such an immense forest, the only way that could have happened was if the murderer was watching their steps.

Yerin would have probably died anyway, Youngho knew that. With Eunbi gone, she had been destined to a path of madness, and it was likely that she’d have been set on hurting the party. This murder was a metaphor, a message. They were nothing without their soulmates. Yerin, with her hands tied up, had no option but to die. Her murderer had only sped up the process.

When Youngho decided that there was no point in staying there any longer, he climbed up the tree and released Yerin. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught Ten flinching at the sound of the crash, and Youngho regretted right away not to have carried her down with delicacy. It was a waste of time, and though Youngho hurt, assuring Ten’s safety meant that he had to be efficient, not compassionate. Youngho laid her on the ground, closed her eyes, and kept the rope of her hands for himself. Her body, unlike Eunbi’s, was cold. The rope could be useful.

Ten didn’t move an inch when Youngho touched his shoulder, and for a second Youngho thought that he wasn’t listening to him either. However, they had deviated from their path to find Yerin, and this had been the result, so Youngho asked the most sincere question, “What do we do now?”

And Ten was as sincere, “I don’t know.”

“I have an idea,” Youngho muttered, mostly to himself.

Ten spun to glance at him, jittery, with a sadness that in contrast didn’t bring passiveness. It hurt Youngho to see him this way, because both of them knew that Ten had been wrong, that he had been irrational, and that they would have been in a better place if Ten had consented to Youngho’s logic.

“An idea?”

“Depending on our priorities.” Depending on the role they wanted to take, which Youngho wasn’t so sure of either. The only reason he hesitated was because they would share their duties, because he couldn’t push Ten to leave by himself whilst Youngho stayed behind. “I was thinking that we could attract the murderer instead of letting them wander around and find… someone else.”

Ten hid his surprise, but Youngho would have never missed the hint of discomfort, a minuscule frown between Ten’s eyebrows.

Attracting the murderer had a clear aim: killing them. Of course, they could merely capture them, but Ten knew that Youngho didn’t wish to be so lenient. Even though Ten wasn’t that lenient with his enemies either, this was different. This wasn’t about an enemy, or at least their subconscious couldn’t register it as such. Deep inside, they knew who they were supposed to catch.

“Let’s get out of here first,” Ten whispered, pointing ahead with his chin. Before Youngho could accept, Ten had already slipped his hand into Youngho’s, pulling him forward. “I can’t think with her behind us.”

Youngho shut his mouth close, for it wasn’t the moment to retort that Ten should be more worried about other problems. He wanted to, though. Ten’s emotional instability made him vulnerable, and in consequence made Youngho vulnerable too.

It was true that once they had walked for ten minutes, Youngho breathed better. It didn’t smell of death anymore, and he didn’t feel the odd pulse of life extinguishing around him. They sat by the base of a tree, a relief since it was the first time they rested after several hours of walking. Youngho chose a small rock, his back against the tree, and Ten dropped on a zone full of moss in front of him. By then, night was complete, and both of them were aware that it’d be impossible to sleep at all.

“It’s risky,” Youngho breathed, watching how a cloud of vapor materialized out of his mouth along his words. “But if we make a fire, a fire that is big enough, everyone else will see it.”

Burning a part of the forest wasn’t void of dangers, but it was a forest with good resistance to fire, with high humidity and continuous rains. Both of them, land soldiers, had the skills to control a fire even under lacking circumstances. To make it go haywire too.

Ten considered the proposal, much calmer than minutes ago, before pointing out, “Our army might as well.”

“Yes,” Youngho nodded. He was sure that the forest had put out the fires from the plane, because otherwise they’d have been able to detect the smoke from kilometers away, and if they started a fire themselves, they would be mistaken for the plane. “We’ll be putting all of us in danger, but it’s the fastest way to reunite.”

And their friends knew too. Most of them, upon seeing a fire, would interpret that it was a signal or that someone was in trouble, and in both cases the most natural reaction for them would be to care for it. Youngho couldn’t imagine any of them escaping from the danger unless they were injured.

Ten believed the same, for he didn’t doubt Youngho’s words. His concerns lied somewhere else.

“They could cross paths with the murderer while they get here,” he said, lowering his voice. The memory of the last two corpses remained in his mind, otherwise he’d have never voiced out that possibility. It was enough guilt, Youngho understood that, and Ten didn’t wish to bear with the death of their friends as well. “They might be alone, so they might come here alone. Easy targets. Do we want this?”

“It’s all or nothing,” Youngho confirmed.  Ten lapped his tongue over his upper lip, nervous, aware that Youngho wouldn’t take the lead if Ten didn’t accept first. “So?”

 

 

 

 

  **֍   Kun. Space forces. Unit № 6  ֍**

 

It was fascinating how Jaemin could have a complaint ready at any moment, always on his tongue. Kun, who had extensive experience with his temper, was still amazed at how rough he could get with Renjun. It wasn’t the usual roughness of his, born out of frustration, rage or simple hatred. It was a defensive crudity, like a kid that bullied another kid because he was scared of him, to mark territory.

Renjun treated Jaemin like a patient, and that was what affected Jaemin. Kun had seen Renjun work at the infirmary before, but Jaemin hadn’t, and thus he was wary of the care and sweetness Renjun used on him. To Kun, it was fun to watch Jaemin’s fear dissolve step by step, to observe how he realized that his little war was just in his head.

Kun had been preparing the bags they were going to carry, and after two days of barely sleeping, he had finished. They were working against the clock, and so Kun had done his best to find the needed materials for the trip in each part of the plane. But parting depended on Jaemin too. Kun hadn’t dared to ask while Jaemin was still unable to move, for it seemed insensitive. However, that morning Renjun and he had spotted a couple of aircrafts scanning their zone, and the threat of having been found floated in the air.

That was the reason Renjun had pushed Jaemin to walk, and the reason why Kun was observing them from afar, not daring to interrupt their moment. If Kun had been in Jaemin’s line of sight, Jaemin would have never clinged onto Renjun’s arm without fear. He would have been ashamed, afraid to be judged for not rejecting Renjun’s help considering that he had spent the last months developing negative emotions towards him.

“Can you not look at me like that?” Jaemin protested, a scowl blooming on his face as he took a peek at Renjun’s expression.

“You’re taking your first steps,” Renjun retorted. He wasn’t joking, but sometimes one didn’t need a mockery tone to know that someone was laughing at them. That was the case when Renjun continued, “Like a baby.”

Kun stifled his laughter against his palm, since Jaemin looked like Renjun had punched him in the face. It was understandable. Kun doubted Jaemin had ever been called a baby with a positive connotation. That wasn’t an adjective they could hear in the army unless it was for humiliation.

Therefore, Jaemin grunted, “Once I can move by myself, you better run.”

“Empty threats,” Renjun teased back, so unbothered that it was only going to contribute to Jaemin’s frustration.

They were empty threats, though.

Kun was about to cut them off, but a quick glance at Renjun made him wait for longer, expectant. It took Jaemin a few seconds to catch what Kun had seen, when Renjun’s hand had slipped over his arm enough to release him; Jaemin’s right arm lurched for Renjun as a reflex, but it was too late. It didn’t cross Jaemin’s mind how desperate his gesture came off, and Kun even stepped back in fear Jaemin could detect his presence.

In their privacy though, Jaemin didn’t feel any shame.

 “No, no, _wait_ ,” he gasped, trying to clutch harder onto Renjun. But Renjun had backtracked fast enough to escape from Jaemin’s grip, and he didn’t take any pity on him or the plea in his voice. When Jaemin breathed in and realized that he wasn’t falling down, he let out a weak, “Oh.”

Instead of allowing Jaemin to process the situation, Renjun smiled and walked away. Kun could see the fear reappear in Jaemin’s eyes, but before he could intervene, Renjun was already striding to him, either unconcerned with Jaemin’s well being or sure that he was fine. To Kun’s luck, Jaemin didn’t glance their way, too focused on walking without losing his balance.

“Are we ready to go?” Kun asked Renjun, who lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

“He can walk, but we will have to stop to rest pretty often.” Renjun sighed, and from up close, Kun noticed how much of a relief that was for him; that maybe a minute ago he hadn’t believed that Jaemin would be able to stand up by himself. “He can’t carry weight either.”

They could deal with the weight of Jaemin’s necessities and weapons, however, so that wouldn’t be a huge problem. It’d just interfere with their speed.

Kun observed Renjun, so closely that Renjun tilted his head, questioning. That was a good invitation to voice out his thoughts, and Kun had never been intimidated by Renjun, so he shoot, “Is it safe for you to enter the city?”

It wasn’t safe for any of them, but unlike Yukhei and Renjun, their faces weren’t known as public menaces. To some extent they could go unnoticed if they didn’t make any mistakes, if they were discreet. In Renjun’s case, he would be a lost case as soon as someone from his past recognized him.

“Of course not,” Renjun said, the corner of his lips tugging up at such question. “But I’m not letting any of you stay in there alone.”

Kun smiled too, but he didn’t mention the obvious part: that if they were discovered red-handed, Renjun wouldn’t make a big difference. Even Kun himself was conscious that he wouldn’t contribute much; he was a space soldier, able to work in other disciplines, but that’s what their friends were there for. And he was entering enemy, foreign territory, with his feet on the ground, and Kun only knew how to orientate in the deep space, there where civilians weren’t in the picture.

Instead of pointing that problem out, Kun whispered, “He doesn’t want to like you.”

Renjun raised his eyebrows, slightly caught off guard. Kun didn’t explain who he was talking about, because Renjun understood right away, which was a hint that he wasn’t oblivious either.

“I don’t need him to like me,” Renjun fought back, voice straining at last. Kun opened his mouth to reply, yet Renjun already predicted what he had to say: that it didn’t depend on Renjun, that Jaemin might have wanted to dislike him, and yet it didn’t depend on Jaemin either. “Don’t go that way. He’s confused because Jeno’s feelings take over him too.”

Perhaps a few days ago Kun wouldn’t have doubted it. He did now, after observing Jaemin’s wariness towards himself and the effort he was putting in not showing Kun that he didn’t hate Renjun. His lack of negative feelings, at least the lack of those with enough intensity to be troublesome for his relationship, was Jaemin’s dirty secret.

And it was Kun’s too, since Renjun didn’t look disposed to accept the truth. Kun could have told him what they both already knew: Jeno and Jaemin had been soulmates for a long time, and when they wished to, they were able to separate their feelings. If Jaemin was experiencing the emotions Jeno felt for Renjun, it was because he was letting it happen.

 

 

 

 

  **֍   Chenle. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

Panic was the strongest force for a plan to be destroyed, but sometimes it was unavoidable.

Chenle hadn’t heard the planes, less had he spotted them, even though he was awake and on his back, his stare on the sky. Jisung was sleeping at his side, and throughout the night he had slipped down and down until his head had found refuge below Chenle’s right arm.

Dawn was beginning to bloom when the noise woke Chenle up, thunderous, vibrating through the air and making all tree leaves in the zone tremble. Dew drops fell on Chenle’s face and blurred his vision, but he wiped them away with his sleeve.

When Jisung sat up with a scream on the tip of his tongue, Chenle grabbed him by the waist with one arm and covered his mouth with the back of his other hand. Silence was vital. Chenle was aware that Jisung’s first impulse would be to attack, because right out of his slumber Jisung was too confused to think where he was; Chenle felt as confused, though his consciousness had made him recompose much faster.

“It’s not here,” Chenle whispered into Jisung’s ear, pulling him closer and closer until Jisung breathed out against his chest. He felt Jisung’s eyelashes brush over his uniform as he closed his eyes. “It’s far away.”

As dawn took over, they avoided mentioning what was evident. In the horizon, several columns of smoke raised towards the sky, signaling the exact place where the plane must have crashed days ago. Soon the forest would asphyxiate the fire from the bombs and the sky would be crystal clear again.

For that same reason Chenle and Jisung began their trip without delay, since as long as the smoke remained, they would know how to dodge that zone. They didn’t dare to wonder if their friends had abandoned the plane in time, albeit Chenle didn’t miss how Jisung forgot to breathe for long periods of time, tense, just to gasp for air later.

They didn’t talk much, so Chenle chose himself to watch out for their path. Jisung kept his head low, and Chenle would have scolded him for it, in good spirits, any other time, but not in that moment. Jisung’s fickle attention was an advantage for Chenle when, right across the first columns of smoke, a new column was born.

Chenle halted his steps. It was too far away for it to be part of the original fire. It was thinner, clearer too, ascending with a sort of control that couldn’t be a coincidence. And when Jisung didn’t hear Chenle’s steps behind him, he came to a stop, looked back, and then followed Chenle’s glance.

Unlike Chenle, Jisung didn’t need to analyze the smoke and ponder, so he muttered, “A call.”

Jisung’s certainty was all the confirmation Chenle required. The smoke was in a different direction, but not by much; the doubts Chenle was experiencing came from other elements, from other _if’s_.

“What do we do?” Chenle asked. His palms pulsated in pain, reminding him that he wasn’t in the best state to fight body to body. “Why would anyone think a call is a good idea?”

Jisung rotated on his heels, understanding Chenle’s approach; a clear view of Jisung’s semblance gave Chenle the answer: Jisung had already decided for the both of them. He wanted to go. And yet Chenle had the power to deny him that right, since Jisung wouldn’t leave him behind if Chenle refused.

“I know you’re thinking that it’s a trap,” Jisung began, talking so fast that Chenle signaled him to calm down. It was inutile, because Jisung was conscious of his own nervousness, arms flailing at his side. He gaited back to Chenle with huge steps, determination in his eyes – or desperation, Chenle was torn. “And it might be, okay. But the army would never assume that we’re this stupid. Plus we’re too near to enemy territory and they would risk breaching the neutral territory pact.”

“They already did that by bombing the plane.”

Jisung closed his eyes, searching the way to rebut that. “Taking land is different.”

Chenle knew that, in the end, Jisung just wanted to go for their own sake. Chenle’s wounds were infected, so it didn’t matter if they avoided a death trap, because Chenle didn’t have any way to stop the infection from killing him. Perhaps if they made it to the city in time, which wasn’t the greatest idea either: they’d be in a rush, and one couldn’t break into an enemy city without patience and logic.

The possibility of the rest of the party, who could have medicines, summoning them was their last and only resort.

 

 

 

 

  **֍   Mark. Technologist apprentice. Base CK2Y3   ֍**

 

Mark wasn’t sure.

But if he was honest to himself, he didn’t think that he would ever be sure about corrupting himself like this.

Lying on his bed, he looked at the ceiling of his bedroom, which displayed an informative map of the hour and the conditions outside the building. Panels were usually not installed in such an odd place, but when Mark arrived at the military, he had thought that it was the fastest way to be alert. He regretted that decision, however, because overtime he had developed the habit of waking up in the middle of the night to check that they weren’t under attack, that the panel wasn’t shining bright red.

That night, however, Mark didn’t even try to fall asleep.

He had calculated the hours of Guanheng’s shift, which started at three in the morning, and had waited for the clock to strike the right time. Meanwhile, he went back and forth with the same thoughts, with the same doubts. This plan could go terribly wrong, and if it did, then it would be the end for him, all and forever. And if it worked, and Mark didn’t fail during a later phase, then Guanheng would have to pay for the both of them.

Sacrifices, they were. Mark had never sacrificed anyone.

Mark swayed over the bed, letting his feet touch the warm floor. At least the army hadn’t started depriving him from commodities, bit by bit, to make him feel that he wasn’t part of them anymore.

When he opened the door of his bedroom, Guanheng was staring right at him, positioned on the opposite wall between two other doors.Mark made an effort not to glance down at Guanheng’s hands, for the boy was startled and his hands had immediately travelled down to his gun. It was understandable, and Mark didn’t blame him, since he must have received very specific orders. If Mark tried to escape in the middle of the night, Guanheng was allowed to take him down.

However, as Mark remained still, Guanheng didn’t react; he observed him with attention, but as any good soldier would have done, pretending that they didn’t exist. Mark wondered if deep inside that was a defense mechanism to dissuade Mark from talking to him, almost as if Guanheng could predict what was going to happen.

There wasn’t anyone else in the hall, like he had calculated. It was Mark’s moment.

“Do you want to come in?” he proposed, clear, loud, so that Guanheng didn’t mistake his words.

However, it was a proposal that was out of place, and Guanheng acted like he didn’t understand Mark, or rather, like he didn’t want to understand. Mark had foreseen that.

“You have to watch me,” Mark insisted. Guanheng, as the rest of the guards that were assigned to spy on Mark, were aware that Mark had deactivated every microphone and camera in his room. No matter how many times they activated them, Mark would revise his room after leaving, even if it was for two seconds, and thus his privacy inside remained intact. That was his golden card against Guanheng. “It doesn’t matter if you watch over me outside or inside, and I could easily be plotting something in my room without you knowing.”

Guanheng blinked at him with his big, naïve eyes.

Of course, if Guanheng had strict orders about staying in his place, he couldn’t agree to this. But the army was smarter than that, and Mark was smarter than them and could use their protocols for advantage. Guanheng had probably been told to get close to Mark and, if necessary, to betray him.

Despite that, it was evident that Guanheng was afraid of Mark, of Mark’s initiative at least, because his eyes roamed over the whole hall as to find an excuse not to enter his bedroom. Mark knew that no guard would appear at least in the next five minutes.

Mark could be innocent in some aspects, but this kid was much more innocent than him, a lamb Mark could eat in one bite. Mark kind of pitied him.

“Fine,” Guanheng said with a nod, his nod more energetic than his voice.

Mark stepped aside to let him in, but Guanheng shook his head, indicating him to step back first. He wasn’t going to walk in and give his back to Mark. Mark complied, for he needed Guanheng to lower his barriers and opposing resistance would worsen his chances. Still it was unpleasant to be treated like a criminal, even if it was justified, even if Mark _was_ a criminal.

With the door open, Mark backtracked and sat on his undone bed. Only then, with a hint of doubt on his semblance, Guanheng stepped in and closed the door. He lingered by the door for a few seconds, as though he expected to receive an attack anytime soon.

It was a matter of time that Guanheng realized Mark wasn’t going to hurt him. In fact, it was an irrational thought of his, for Mark could hurt him, but he couldn’t escape the building without running into another guard, or for that matter, without the cameras recording him and activating an alarm. There weren’t any blind spots.

And that was why Mark needed Guanheng.

As soon as Guanheng sat on the bed next to him, Mark decided not to tiptoe around him.

“Do you think I’m guilty?” he asked, leaning forward to have a better view of Guanheng’s reaction.

Guanheng was far from surprised.

Mark needed to know how hopeless his plan was, and the key passed through Guanheng’s answer. A negative reply would push Mark to change his whole schemes, to eradicate Guanheng from his map of freedom.

“That’s not for me to decide,” Guanheng said, like a robot, like he had memorized those words before being assigned to Mark.

Contrary to his mouth, Guanheng’s eyes analyzed Mark, and he didn’t bother to hide what he was doing.

Mark supposed that neutrality was natural for someone that worked for internal investigations. Especially considering Guanheng was still on the lower ranks. That, or there was a microphone that Mark had missed.

“It’s for whom?” Mark retorted. Guanheng had really dark eyes, he noticed, the sort that unified his pupils and irises. “Because so far, that decision is on the hands of those who want me to be guilty.”

“If you wanted a fair life, you shouldn’t have joined the army,” Guanheng shot back at him, so sure of his own words that Mark felt his façade crumble down at his crudity.

Guanheng had been recruited for investigations because he wasn’t emotionally weak, and Mark had underestimated him. Compassion wasn’t the right angle to approach him. Guanheng was intelligent, naïve with boys, but not naïve to be baited with pity.

But there was something all soldiers were weak to.

Mark let his curiosity, a feigned curiosity, flow along his words, “Who is your partner?”

That took Guanheng off guard. He narrowed his eyes at Mark, and yes, he had chosen that word on purpose, but Guanheng didn’t figure it out. Even though Guanheng’s discomfort was notorious, Mark did his best at pretending that he didn’t mean wrong.

“Not partner, soulmate,” Guanheng corrected, with a calmness as feigned as Mark’s curiosity.

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t have partners.” Mark scrunched his nose, breaking the eye contact to hint that he was embarrassed for his mistake. And this, Mark noticed, was the key to get to Guanheng. “Having relationships is detrimental in your area, just like in mine.”

Internal investigations didn’t need their workers to have ties that would blur their logic. They were soldiers, and even if the army had indoctrinated them so that they kept their feelings repressed, in the end it was almost impossible to betray someone that was sharing your bed. Taeyong was the clearest proof of this.

Guanheng bit his lower lip, just for a second, before noticing his own sign of weakness.

Mark didn’t comprehend it until Guanheng mumbled, “But you had them, didn’t you?”

There it was: engagement. It was what Mark required from him. A lot of people were curious about that, about if Mark had meddled with Jaemin, Jeno and Donghyuck. They visited the technology base too often, and they obviously had advantages when it came to try new technology, so other soldiers had always assumed that Mark and Doyoung were getting favors from them. Nothing was for free for a soldier, but in this rare case it was. Mark remembered that even Doyoung had questioned him the first time Jaemin volunteered for one of their experiments.

Mark shook his head. “No, they were my friends.”

Incredulity painted Guanheng’s expression, but Mark didn’t insist. He allowed the silence to swallow him, so that Guanheng processed who he was talking to, so that he found all the similarities between them and the wonderful disparities too.

Mark saw it in his stare, in how it changed with realization, the whole point of Mark dragging him into his room clicking in his head.

It was right then or never, and Mark gathered his last bit of sanity to lift his hand and touch Guanheng. He caressed Guanheng’s neck, feeling him tense up, and then looked into his eyes. Mark wasn’t better than him. In fact, neither of them was better than the other. Guanheng was shocked, perhaps uncomfortable, at such physical contact, but he didn’t recoil. He wanted, needed it. Mark couldn’t blame him for it: he hadn’t touched anyone like this since forever, at least not alone in a private room.

“You aren’t allowed to touch your soulmate, are you?” Mark whispered. His plan wasn’t infallible, that was clear now. He wasn’t supposed to bond with Guanheng, not in both directions; he had meant to make Guanheng understand him, not the other way around, and understanding Guanheng was way too risky for Mark. “We chose such a lonely career.”

Guanheng could shake him off, and that’s what Mark thought he would do when Guanheng set his hand over Mark’s hand. However, he pressed down harder, leading Mark’s moves. Mark’s breath hitched. Guanheng’s skin was smooth, untouched both by the war and his soulmate, and Mark marveled as their hands, together, roamed down his chest.

He was warm. Mark felt Guanheng’s heart race, both of their hands stopping right there, but Guanheng wasn’t embarrassed about it. Mark was, however.

“Did you think the battleground was too painful and it’d be easier to live in internal investigations?” Mark continued. He had rehearsed that. It didn’t meant much anymore.

Guanheng didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on Mark’s mouth, but Mark knew what he was thinking. Mark himself had supposed that his life would be easier as a technologist; and it was in certain senses, but he had learned that death wasn’t the worst outcome of one’s life. That was something that only kids thought before joining the army: they feared death, and only that, until they witnessed the other horrible possibilities for them.

“There is a reason so many soldiers choose the battleground.” Mark was talking to himself at that point, because Guanheng wasn’t listening to him, just looking at him like he was ready to eat him up, to break any rule that he had been imposed. “It’s better to live a dangerous life with all the pleasures it brings than to live a safe, emotionless life.”

They would continue to live that way, but a moment of delusion was all Mark wanted from Guanheng. To convince him that Mark could be important in his life, that he deserved to be saved, guilty or not, and that Mark would provide him with whatever his soulmate couldn’t.

As Mark leaned over to press a kiss on the underside of Guanheng’s jaw, his heart raced faster than Guanheng’s. Even if Guanheng had allowed him to go this far, Mark feared that he’d get back to his senses at any moment. Deep within, Mark knew that Guanheng had surrendered the moment he had sat on his bed.

If those were the orders he had received or not, Mark ignored it.

Guanheng entangled his hands in Mark’s hair, and Mark didn’t hesitate for a second, not giving him time to think. He kissed his collarbones, chaste at first, and then his jaw, licking up his neck and feeling goosebumps extend all over Guanheng’s skin. Mark sensed a shiver go down his spine as well, Guanheng’s skin burning on his tongue, his jittery breathing accelerating Mark’s pulse.

Even though Mark had planned this for a bigger cause, it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it. He had slept with other soldiers, but they always had been loners, unpaired soldiers. Guanheng had a soulmate, though. And Mark couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to fuck someone that had been forbidden from loving his soulmate as he should have.

“I’ll let you fuck me,” Mark confessed, voice dropping lower than he intended to.

It was hard for him to do this, for he had much to lose, and also much to win. And if Doyoung knew about this, even if it was just the tiniest peak of this iceberg, Mark was going to pay a high price for it.

Guanheng fisted Mark’s hair, pulling him away, though he didn’t prevent Mark from undoing the first button of his uniform. Mark didn’t dare to touch the second button, since Guanheng’s reaction was a warning.

And when Guanheng spoke, Mark understood why.

“In exchange of what?” he muttered, even lower than him, as if he still believed they could be heard by the microphones.

Mark stilled. He couldn’t say the truth, not yet. First it was about trapping Guanheng so that he didn’t have any option but to help him in his crazy schemes.

“Nothing,” Mark replied, lied. Perhaps Guanheng knew that he was lying, and perhaps he wanted to fuck him anyway. Mark had to cling to the possibility of Guanheng being weaker than him, though he wasn’t sure about that anymore. “I feel lonely too. And all my friends have died. And now people look at me like they want to hang me themselves.”

Mark’s only rule was to never confess, under any circumstances, that he had helped the party to escape. He could skip any other rules, however, so when Guanheng’s gaze fell on his lips, Mark undid his shirt to the last button.

 

 

 

 

**֍   Jisung. Speciality not assigned. Unit not assigned   ֍**

 

For once, Jisung was the careless one.

The column of smoke had disappeared, but Chenle and he were headed to the right direction. When they reached the zone, Chenle begged him to slow down, to follow the protocol and examine the possible dangers.

Jisung was certain that it was their team, however, and he couldn’t bear waiting for longer. It didn’t matter that much if they got caught by the wrong persons, anyhow, because even though Jisung wasn’t in danger, Chenle was. And if Chenle didn’t make it because of his own infections, Jisung was going to follow him to his ending.

So Jisung didn’t slow down. When he was close enough to the zone, he followed the voices, faster and faster, the little murmur of familiarity rumbling in his ears.

The first person he saw was Youngho, with his arms crossed over his chest and trouble on his face. That could have made Jisung reconsider the situation. Youngho seemed to be free, but disturbed, just like he would have been if it was a trap. Jisung didn’t think it through, despite how Chenle’s horror slid through their Connection as he stepped beside him.

It happened too fast. Jisung stumbled into the zone, tripping, and counted feet as quick as he could, checking that everyone had the right uniform. But he counted twelve feet, six people. Four persons were missing, apart from them, and he didn’t need to lift his head to confirm his hunch.

He experienced it through Chenle first, just one second later, the rage and the determination, a promise that Chenle wasn’t going to break. Their friends didn’t have time to welcome them, to ask questions, not even to feel happy about them being alive. Ten was the closest to them, and Chenle didn’t blink as he stormed towards him, took a gun out of Ten’s waist, and spun around to face another one of their friends.

When Chenle pointed at Donghyuck’s head with the gun, Donghyuck smiled, twirled his own gun between his fingers, and pointed back at him. And before Jisung could even react, there was a second gun directed at Chenle, the barrel pressed against his temple. Not just Donghyuck’s gun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't say anything. so I will just. Goodbye.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/renjucas)   
>  [Curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/berryboys)


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